he's a rafting guide. he had a mohawk but wears it down. his hair is soft and his eyes are very green. he has a perfect nose. his life is completely unlike the life of any other boy i know. he farms, and lives off the land, and camps every night, and can hike for days and raft entire rivers.
the whole boy/girl game suddenly feels so alien to me.
its very strange.
im going rafting w him tues. there might be kissing, since thatll be date 2.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Guest Post 8: Anonymous
He awoke to the sound of heavy purring. Or was it the the fur in his mouth? Whatever. He was confronted with cat breath and a hungry cat sitting squarely on his chest purring inquisitively into his face.
He shoved the fur ball off causing the thing to stumble onto his desk of empty glasses, a laptop. Long unused, crusted over syringes fell and tinkled to the ground.
The cat was all that was left of her. She was gone. Long fucking gone. Up and left without a word. He didnt even own a litter box. He wondered briefly "Where does this thing shit?" He rubbed his eyes.
He hated cats, hated her, hated mornings. He rose slowly.
Despite his feelings for the feline, it represented a truth, evidence.
Long night of heated and sweaty screaming, orgasm after orgasm had been replaced with nap after nap. A tiny mewing mouth wanting to be fed.
The crust and amnesia had been replaced with clarity and full remembrance. The truth of just how mediocre his life had become. The cat brushed up against his legs.
Bliss came in double overhead waves of serotonin and dopamine, cooked and cut, powdered and boiled.
The throbbing pulse stopped when he felt the time had come, that or when the money ran out.
They descended the musty stairs past some bullshit felt rope crusted with jizz and spent hope or up into a cavernous loft with soft dark corners.
The bass line, the kick drum, the bright lights, the fair-weather family he'd made for himself wrapped their leather clad arms around his ego and rubbed and spat and stroked and licked.
All that was left was stupid fucking cat. With an ugly asshole. As adorable as it was annoying.
The thing leapt under an arm chair as his phone began buzzing and scampering across the desk, he disabled his morning alarm.
As he slid the silken knot of his tie the door of his flat burst open.
His roommates stumbled in loudly vacillating between conversation between the merits of modern typographic form and some girls tits or lack-thereof.
He waited for them to disperse and he stepped into the predawn haze. He looked toward the projects and smokestacks that bookended his street. He began walking toward the train hoping the sun would cut through some of the goddamn haze.
He shoved the fur ball off causing the thing to stumble onto his desk of empty glasses, a laptop. Long unused, crusted over syringes fell and tinkled to the ground.
The cat was all that was left of her. She was gone. Long fucking gone. Up and left without a word. He didnt even own a litter box. He wondered briefly "Where does this thing shit?" He rubbed his eyes.
He hated cats, hated her, hated mornings. He rose slowly.
Despite his feelings for the feline, it represented a truth, evidence.
Long night of heated and sweaty screaming, orgasm after orgasm had been replaced with nap after nap. A tiny mewing mouth wanting to be fed.
The crust and amnesia had been replaced with clarity and full remembrance. The truth of just how mediocre his life had become. The cat brushed up against his legs.
Bliss came in double overhead waves of serotonin and dopamine, cooked and cut, powdered and boiled.
The throbbing pulse stopped when he felt the time had come, that or when the money ran out.
They descended the musty stairs past some bullshit felt rope crusted with jizz and spent hope or up into a cavernous loft with soft dark corners.
The bass line, the kick drum, the bright lights, the fair-weather family he'd made for himself wrapped their leather clad arms around his ego and rubbed and spat and stroked and licked.
All that was left was stupid fucking cat. With an ugly asshole. As adorable as it was annoying.
The thing leapt under an arm chair as his phone began buzzing and scampering across the desk, he disabled his morning alarm.
As he slid the silken knot of his tie the door of his flat burst open.
His roommates stumbled in loudly vacillating between conversation between the merits of modern typographic form and some girls tits or lack-thereof.
He waited for them to disperse and he stepped into the predawn haze. He looked toward the projects and smokestacks that bookended his street. He began walking toward the train hoping the sun would cut through some of the goddamn haze.
finally, an update.
i drove through plains, over the mountains, and through the desert.
i rafted the colorado river and i hiked for miles.
i took a thousand pictures, but none of them capture what that is.
its something you'll only know if you do it yourself.
i rafted the colorado river and i hiked for miles.
i took a thousand pictures, but none of them capture what that is.
its something you'll only know if you do it yourself.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
I'm a bad blogger.
I drove 800 miles today, through iowa, nebraska, colorado, and utah. I crossed the rockies by myself, and I made a mess of my blog, while inefficiently promoting Muff MacGuffin's incredibly well written contribution to my ongoing Guest Post project.
A good blogger would be organizing all of todays photos and untold stories into a single post, tweet several "new Guest Post" alerts, and tell you why I drove 1600 miles in fewer than 48 hrs and what ill be doing.
Instead, ill apologize for the continued anarchy of my blog, and assure you that nelson and I are happily settled into our next week-long home, and we need to sleep.
My apologies, dear reader.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
A good blogger would be organizing all of todays photos and untold stories into a single post, tweet several "new Guest Post" alerts, and tell you why I drove 1600 miles in fewer than 48 hrs and what ill be doing.
Instead, ill apologize for the continued anarchy of my blog, and assure you that nelson and I are happily settled into our next week-long home, and we need to sleep.
My apologies, dear reader.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Colorado clouds
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Guest Post 7: Muffin MacGuffin
I became a vegan sort of recently, but that's not exactly what I want to talk about. Like all right-thinking individuals, I hate evangelism. I actually watch videos of evangelical ministers to help put me to sleep because I find the disconnect between rhetoric and reality relaxing. Sartre's nausea is soporific, I suppose. I have never slept through (non-existential) vomiting.
When I became a vegetarian, six years ago, I promised myself and my loved ones I wouldn't evangelize about it, because who wants that? It was a private decision, based on a long-considered opinion that meat is murder. I was, just prior to this conversion, seeing a woman whose bedroom was adorned with multiple "Love animals, don't eat them" posters and something about her and the posters and the vegetarian proselytizing of a camp counselor some three years prior just all sank in and I was a vegetarian for six years.
When I became a vegetarian, six years ago, I promised myself and my loved ones I wouldn't evangelize about it, because who wants that? It was a private decision, based on a long-considered opinion that meat is murder. I was, just prior to this conversion, seeing a woman whose bedroom was adorned with multiple "Love animals, don't eat them" posters and something about her and the posters and the vegetarian proselytizing of a camp counselor some three years prior just all sank in and I was a vegetarian for six years.
Now I'm a vegan and last night I got into a fight with two of my high school friends about being vegan. I was explaining why I'm a vegan (the reasons are boring and predictable but I stand by them) but things swiftly turned into a full-on sermon on the environmental and - yes - moral dangers of carnivorism. I didn't get the opportunity (or I didn't take it if I did) to explain that, of course, this is what works for me, I would not try to take ships away from the developing world or keep Rhee Dolly from eating a squirrel. I understand that I am in a position where being vegan is relatively easy; I do believe that if you can do it, you should, but I know not everyone can.
So my question is: to what degree does this make me an asshole? Is it ethical to babble about morality to close friends? What if the issue is abortion?
Not only is abortion (and, broadly, birth control) an Important Issue of Our Time, I happen to think that attacks on abortion rights are full-on assaults on all women (and all those with uteri - I sincerely apologize to all non-cis-women I offend), and present perhaps the greatest danger to the lives and well-being of everyone who's ever wanted to have consensual sex without it destroying their lives.
Is it appropriate to evangelize about abortion? I surround myself with other people who are as fervently pro-choice as I am, but I have lately been in heavy contact with a man whom I know to be anti-choice. I want every moment to take him aside and yell at him, to tell him that he is a horrible person and if he would deny these rights to others he should never have sex again and he should probably die.
When Obama says "Nobody is pro-abortion" (2008) it makes me want to slam my expensive phone against a wall because he doesn't get it. I want to tell every person I know that Obama is fundamentally not good on women's issues if he says "nobody is pro-abortion" in the same way he would sound like a moron if he claimed that "nobody is pro-appendectomy." I'd love it if people didn't need surgeries too, but seeing as they do I'm beyond thrilled that the procedure exists and is safe and effective.
Can I tell this guy that he's an idiot? Can I tell him that when he eats a steak he contributes to global warming and hurts animals and puts money in Monsanto's pockets which in turn destroy the lives of people in Central and South America? What would be worse: to tell him these things and be the evangelist, or to not speak up at all and be complicit?
-Muffin
Bio: Muffin MacGuffin tries to do the right thing and tries not to be obnoxious about it but you know how it goes.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Monday, July 25, 2011
Guest Post 6: Work Work Work
Work Work Work (pt2)
Dear Google,
I would like to formally accept the posted position of "director of technology at your esteemed corporation, please allow me to introduce myself.
I am vaguely familiar with my laptop which i primarily use to DJ at various nyc nightclubs, and the internet which i use regularly to access facebook, twitter, pitchfork, and many many mp3 blogs. Though the technology is obviously veiled in a dark shadow of mystery, my passion burns brightly, i am your precocious new employee, eager to step up to the task - whatever that may be.
My mother sent me .jpgs of other employees racing through the halls of google inc. on razr scooters, playing the familiar good natured joke of taping a "kick me" sign to the ceo's back, and him laughing it off, as if to say "my you are a pesky bunch!" I want to be pesky, i want to be in your bunch!
Oh summer fridays would be such fun! Strange blue cocktails the size of our heads, endless onion rings at applebees.... wow the thought of it..
My mother pleaded with me, just this morning when calling me repeatedly at 10am after i had been DJing till 5am the night before "why dont you just work at google?"
I shall! I shall work at google! so google, thank you for having me! I cant wait to begin work, if you would be so kind as to send me a basic description of what to wear, who to talk to, what to do, how to do it, where to go, and how to get there - i think that i can figure out the rest! (Is there actually anything else) if there is, ill ask my mother.
Thanks again!
Your newest employee,
Asleep at the Glue Factory!
P.s. i wake up at around 2pm
P.p.s when can i expect my first (six figure) paycheck? Can you pay me in cash? My bank acct is sorta overdrawn .....
Dear Google,
I would like to formally accept the posted position of "director of technology at your esteemed corporation, please allow me to introduce myself.
I am vaguely familiar with my laptop which i primarily use to DJ at various nyc nightclubs, and the internet which i use regularly to access facebook, twitter, pitchfork, and many many mp3 blogs. Though the technology is obviously veiled in a dark shadow of mystery, my passion burns brightly, i am your precocious new employee, eager to step up to the task - whatever that may be.
My mother sent me .jpgs of other employees racing through the halls of google inc. on razr scooters, playing the familiar good natured joke of taping a "kick me" sign to the ceo's back, and him laughing it off, as if to say "my you are a pesky bunch!" I want to be pesky, i want to be in your bunch!
Oh summer fridays would be such fun! Strange blue cocktails the size of our heads, endless onion rings at applebees.... wow the thought of it..
My mother pleaded with me, just this morning when calling me repeatedly at 10am after i had been DJing till 5am the night before "why dont you just work at google?"
I shall! I shall work at google! so google, thank you for having me! I cant wait to begin work, if you would be so kind as to send me a basic description of what to wear, who to talk to, what to do, how to do it, where to go, and how to get there - i think that i can figure out the rest! (Is there actually anything else) if there is, ill ask my mother.
Thanks again!
Your newest employee,
Asleep at the Glue Factory!
P.s. i wake up at around 2pm
P.p.s when can i expect my first (six figure) paycheck? Can you pay me in cash? My bank acct is sorta overdrawn .....
Guest Post 5: Work Work Work
Work Work Work (pt1)
Of course our entire financial system is total shit, and i think that we can all agree that money is utterly pointless when separated from the notion of its inherent connection to goods and services. Furthermore, plagues like status, greed, jealousy, and dishonesty swarm about money like flies over the rotting carcass of the american dream.
Still we need it. So we need to work.
I want to write humor piece about a terrible job, but considering my vaguely dire financial situation, i would actually take ANY job. So without further ado, i begin my new series of acceptance letters for jobs i havent interviewed for, applied to, or have the slightest clue as to how to perform even the most rudimentary functions associated with them: thus beginning my new column in my dear friend alex's blog, "work work work."
Enjoy!
-Asleep at the Glue Factory
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Guest Post 4: Leila
My Mother's Story
Since I was a lil girl I've always looked up to my mother and loved hearing the stories of her youth. This one stands out the most to me because if it wasn't for the courage of one person I wouldn't be here today writing this story for you. So here goes. My mother was a city girl being born and raised in Kiev she knew the streets like the back of her hand. She was fearless, beautiful, smart and talented. People to this day tell me of her beauty and charm. She was always the life of the party and everyone wanted to be around her. She worked as a hairstylist at the top salon in the city and the hours were long but hair was her passion. She always took a cab home to be safe but on this night she decided to take the bus instead. The walk to the bus stop was a quiet one. She loved the city at night. As she boarded the bus she noticed two handsome men watching her but she didn't think much of it, she was used to the attention so she just smiled and sat down. As she approached her stop she got up and walked to the front of the bus but when she was walking off she noticed that the two men were following her. They looked harmless she thought so she kept walking. All of a sudden they grabbed her from both sides and as she felt a sharp cold blade against her back she was overcome with fear. Fear for what was about to happen and if she will ever make it home alive. Her life flashed before her eyes and she knew she wasn't ready for it to end. As the men tried to drag her to the nearby park the bus driver yelled out to her, "Are you ok?". She couldn't speak but the fear in her eyes told the whole story. The men told the bus driver, "You could leave we know her." but the driver knew otherwise and what would happen if she left. So she just stood there and said I'm not going anywhere. In anger and frustration one the men jammed the knife into my mothers lower back and though she felt the ice cold blade tear through her she knew she still had a chance to survive. To her surprise the men released her and ran. She fell to her knees crying. She couldn't believe what just happened to her. As she picked herself up out of her own blood and walked back onto the bus she realized the bus was full of people but only one willing to risk their life to save hers. As the bus driver closed the door she smiled at my mother and my mother smiled back at her. She sat down bleeding she thought today isn't going to be my last and the life that flashed before her eyes is just beginning.
-Leila
Bio:
My truth, my moment.
Every line of this song is my truth, tonight.
All I Want
-- Joni Mitchell 
I am on a lonely road and I am traveling
Traveling, traveling, traveling
Looking for something, what can it be
Oh I hate you some, I hate you some, I love you some
Oh I love you when I forget about me
I want to be strong I want to laugh along
I want to belong to the living
Alive, alive, I want to get up and jive
I want to wreck my stockings in some juke box dive
Do you want - do you want - do you want to dance with me baby
Do you want to take a chance
On maybe finding some sweet romance with me baby
Well, come on
All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too
All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you
I want to talk to you, I want to shampoo you
I want to renew you again and again
Applause, applause - Life is our cause
When I think of your kisses my mind see-saws
Do you see - do you see - do you see how you hurt me baby
So I hurt you too
Then we both get so blue.
I am on a lonely road and I am traveling
Looking for the key to set me free
Oh the jealousy, the greed is the unraveling
It's the unraveling
And it undoes all the joy that could be
I want to have fun, I want to shine like the sun
I want to be the one that you want to see
I want to knit you a sweater
Want to write you a love letter
I want to make you feel better
I want to make you feel free
I want to make you feel free

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
All I Want
-- Joni Mitchell 
I am on a lonely road and I am traveling
Traveling, traveling, traveling
Looking for something, what can it be
Oh I hate you some, I hate you some, I love you some
Oh I love you when I forget about me
I want to be strong I want to laugh along
I want to belong to the living
Alive, alive, I want to get up and jive
I want to wreck my stockings in some juke box dive
Do you want - do you want - do you want to dance with me baby
Do you want to take a chance
On maybe finding some sweet romance with me baby
Well, come on
All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too
All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you
I want to talk to you, I want to shampoo you
I want to renew you again and again
Applause, applause - Life is our cause
When I think of your kisses my mind see-saws
Do you see - do you see - do you see how you hurt me baby
So I hurt you too
Then we both get so blue.
I am on a lonely road and I am traveling
Looking for the key to set me free
Oh the jealousy, the greed is the unraveling
It's the unraveling
And it undoes all the joy that could be
I want to have fun, I want to shine like the sun
I want to be the one that you want to see
I want to knit you a sweater
Want to write you a love letter
I want to make you feel better
I want to make you feel free
I want to make you feel free

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Guest Post 3: Anonymous
Post modern hangover
I know this couple in their early 20s, emo kids, cute as HELL. See, they fight like all couples do. Why not? We love, we hurt, we lash out, we make up.. its all part of it, right?
They do it differently though, thats what i want to tell you about.
She txts him, "hey so are you seeing your mother?"
him: "why? Why do you care?"
her "just trying to plan things out, why are you taking my head off?"
Ok stop. Here you need to know two things,
1 - they are communicating exclusively in questions
2 - they are texting one another from the same room.
At this point she walks into the other room, slams the door.
He exhales deeply. Its friday night, they are in the same cramped nyc apartment, which naturally, somebody's parents reluctantly pay for. Its a one bedroom, which means two rooms. An air of hostility rolls into the apartment like fog, nobody can see one another, they are in their own heads, faces illuminated by tiny iphone screens.
Their feelings are certainly still being hurt, and their pain is certainly real. At the same time, so is their love though, and they are seemingly incapable of sharing this intimate detail with one another.
This is (i know for a fact) is how they always fight - and i am sort of horrified, though admittedly fascinated.
I wonder how they fuck. (Do they do that? Jesus..)
Is that normal? To not be able to face the person you love in some of the most intimate moments of your relationship? Is that "okay" with anyone else?
This is evidence of a subtle epidemic which is slowly robbing american young adult society of its personality. The solitary nature of socialization. Situations which are "real" have become too much to handle for these kids, god help them out there.
Our identities are forged not by real life situations but SELECTED from drop down menus. SELECTED from cropped pictures of eyes and bangs and an affinity for film and music.
"This is me," you say to the world. "wow! its also me!" The world says right back.
And we realize that we are all the same, right? But its bullshit isnt it? It just alienates us, ultimately we feel more alone. What the fuck? What did we do wrong? Did we create these profiles incorrectly or something????
The thing that i wish i could tell them is that we dont have to feel alone because in REALITY we are all so alike in surely many, but one very obviously simple way.
We are ALL scared of our place in the world. Why not they just bond over THAT? The reality of this fear should be bringing all of us together!
This anxiety is more meaningful and important than anything else. This anxiety could forge our identities, couldnt it? At least it would be real.
So kids, go ahead.
Let them know that you are scared. Its okay.
Because honestly?
Im scared to fucking death, and Ill be the first to admit it.
Go ahead and judge me for it if you want, because although im scared for you, i think that mostly im just scared OF you.
• You guys scare the fuck out of me, so please guys, put down your iphones, go into the next room, look your girlfriend dead in the eyes, tell her that you are scared because you dont know who you are, but that you love her, and that may be the one thing that you know for certain. If she doesnt love you for that, than grab your shit and run, you can change your relationship status on your way out the door. Oh and when you get outside, scream at her that she is a fucking horrible person... scream it at the top of your lungs, "YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON." Other people will gawk, its fine, let them. At least you will be expressing yourself! At least you will be real. So, welcome to the human race kid, now go have a beer.
-Anonymous
Bio: Anonymous describes himself as "asleep at the glue factory."
I know this couple in their early 20s, emo kids, cute as HELL. See, they fight like all couples do. Why not? We love, we hurt, we lash out, we make up.. its all part of it, right?
They do it differently though, thats what i want to tell you about.
She txts him, "hey so are you seeing your mother?"
him: "why? Why do you care?"
her "just trying to plan things out, why are you taking my head off?"
Ok stop. Here you need to know two things,
1 - they are communicating exclusively in questions
2 - they are texting one another from the same room.
At this point she walks into the other room, slams the door.
He exhales deeply. Its friday night, they are in the same cramped nyc apartment, which naturally, somebody's parents reluctantly pay for. Its a one bedroom, which means two rooms. An air of hostility rolls into the apartment like fog, nobody can see one another, they are in their own heads, faces illuminated by tiny iphone screens.
Their feelings are certainly still being hurt, and their pain is certainly real. At the same time, so is their love though, and they are seemingly incapable of sharing this intimate detail with one another.
This is (i know for a fact) is how they always fight - and i am sort of horrified, though admittedly fascinated.
I wonder how they fuck. (Do they do that? Jesus..)
Is that normal? To not be able to face the person you love in some of the most intimate moments of your relationship? Is that "okay" with anyone else?
This is evidence of a subtle epidemic which is slowly robbing american young adult society of its personality. The solitary nature of socialization. Situations which are "real" have become too much to handle for these kids, god help them out there.
Our identities are forged not by real life situations but SELECTED from drop down menus. SELECTED from cropped pictures of eyes and bangs and an affinity for film and music.
"This is me," you say to the world. "wow! its also me!" The world says right back.
And we realize that we are all the same, right? But its bullshit isnt it? It just alienates us, ultimately we feel more alone. What the fuck? What did we do wrong? Did we create these profiles incorrectly or something????
The thing that i wish i could tell them is that we dont have to feel alone because in REALITY we are all so alike in surely many, but one very obviously simple way.
We are ALL scared of our place in the world. Why not they just bond over THAT? The reality of this fear should be bringing all of us together!
This anxiety is more meaningful and important than anything else. This anxiety could forge our identities, couldnt it? At least it would be real.
So kids, go ahead.
Let them know that you are scared. Its okay.
Because honestly?
Im scared to fucking death, and Ill be the first to admit it.
Go ahead and judge me for it if you want, because although im scared for you, i think that mostly im just scared OF you.
• You guys scare the fuck out of me, so please guys, put down your iphones, go into the next room, look your girlfriend dead in the eyes, tell her that you are scared because you dont know who you are, but that you love her, and that may be the one thing that you know for certain. If she doesnt love you for that, than grab your shit and run, you can change your relationship status on your way out the door. Oh and when you get outside, scream at her that she is a fucking horrible person... scream it at the top of your lungs, "YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON." Other people will gawk, its fine, let them. At least you will be expressing yourself! At least you will be real. So, welcome to the human race kid, now go have a beer.
-Anonymous
Bio: Anonymous describes himself as "asleep at the glue factory."
Friday, July 22, 2011
Guest Post 2: Miss A
I'm in my early 20s. I don't know what life means, but I frantically weigh options and priorities so as to use my time on earth wisely. I work, I mingle, staying on top of the game of survival. I overanalyze experiences searching for reward and gratification - trying to justify making things worth my time and energy.
It's generally assumed that girls like me have no self-respect. I think my problem is that I have too much self respect - too much to stay with unpaid internships in Chelsea, or service jobs that pay 8$ an hour. My time and efforts are fucking precious.
(I have a Bachelor's Degree from NYU - isn't that funny?)
Work sucks. If I had my way, I'd sit and paint and watch movies all day. But that's not an option. So I opt for jobs that require minimum time committment and maximum revenue.
I like it. It's a game - a numbers game. And I'm always trying to beat my high score. Charming the hell out of the guests - I'm a manipulating seductress who empties your wallet.
People emerge from the champagne room in pairs. I think to myself, "they just fucked."
**Shudder**
I never do things that feel whorey. Domming feels whorey. Modeling for amateur photographers feels whorey. (I think "the whorey feeling comes from activities that feel like favors.)
Porn, interestingly, doesn't feel whorey. At least not to me. It feels naughty, exciting, sometimes an endurance test, and certainly slutty! But not whorey.
One likes to feel alive...
The scene. Ohh the incestuous scene.
I happen to socialize in clubs a lot. My friends do too.
The underground club scene is a playground where adults can act like children. Or teenaged girls - there's a lot of that.
Some misguided individuals make the mistake of taking it seriously - the drink tickets and free bumps and names on the flier can really go to one's head. Remember that they will find another mohawked girl with ripped tights to replace you next season.
-Miss A
Bio:
It's generally assumed that girls like me have no self-respect. I think my problem is that I have too much self respect - too much to stay with unpaid internships in Chelsea, or service jobs that pay 8$ an hour. My time and efforts are fucking precious.
(I have a Bachelor's Degree from NYU - isn't that funny?)
Work sucks. If I had my way, I'd sit and paint and watch movies all day. But that's not an option. So I opt for jobs that require minimum time committment and maximum revenue.
I like it. It's a game - a numbers game. And I'm always trying to beat my high score. Charming the hell out of the guests - I'm a manipulating seductress who empties your wallet.
People emerge from the champagne room in pairs. I think to myself, "they just fucked."
**Shudder**
I never do things that feel whorey. Domming feels whorey. Modeling for amateur photographers feels whorey. (I think "the whorey feeling comes from activities that feel like favors.)
Porn, interestingly, doesn't feel whorey. At least not to me. It feels naughty, exciting, sometimes an endurance test, and certainly slutty! But not whorey.
One likes to feel alive...
The scene. Ohh the incestuous scene.
I happen to socialize in clubs a lot. My friends do too.
The underground club scene is a playground where adults can act like children. Or teenaged girls - there's a lot of that.
Some misguided individuals make the mistake of taking it seriously - the drink tickets and free bumps and names on the flier can really go to one's head. Remember that they will find another mohawked girl with ripped tights to replace you next season.
-Miss A
Bio:
Guest Post 1: AML
"The man who has begun to live more seriously within, begins to live more simply without." Hemingway
You're pissed. This whole thing blows and its certainly not what you thought it would be.
You drank with celebrities and they were sort of dorks. You danced on tables at fancy bars and it was sort of lame.
Now you are left alone with your hang over and your self loathing and wondering "was that just my life orgasm? and
it's all downhill from there?"
You are so sick of people telling you how wonderful, unique, special and important you are. You are sick of the vacillation btwn
being the most important thing to ever hit earth and the just a run of the mill person who has to work. WHICH IS IT? What is the truth?
The truth is you have to work. But the good news is - work isn't all bad. Ok - work isn't all bad unless you work at Domino's. Then, I'm sorry,
you have permission to kill yourself. Everyone else, stay with me.
I once told someone that every choice he makes, every decision and every act weaves into the fiber of the person that he becomes. If he can choose
well, he can do great things. If he chooses poorly he will end up in prison, or rehab, or a dead end relationship or, worst case senario, GUEST writing a blog.
So Hemingway says live without. Deny yourself one more drink. Deny yourself your next conquest. Deny your self a cheeto or a brownie or an episode of
the Simpsons that you've already seen. We all have our own starting point. But once you've done that - see if you aren't stronger the next time. See if the
person you are becoming feels a little more realized. See if you can make that last. Live without.
- aml
bio: aml is a person that knows more than you. But probably not all that much more.
She has done a lot of livin' in the time she's been given and now she is happy.
You're pissed. This whole thing blows and its certainly not what you thought it would be.
You drank with celebrities and they were sort of dorks. You danced on tables at fancy bars and it was sort of lame.
Now you are left alone with your hang over and your self loathing and wondering "was that just my life orgasm? and
it's all downhill from there?"
You are so sick of people telling you how wonderful, unique, special and important you are. You are sick of the vacillation btwn
being the most important thing to ever hit earth and the just a run of the mill person who has to work. WHICH IS IT? What is the truth?
The truth is you have to work. But the good news is - work isn't all bad. Ok - work isn't all bad unless you work at Domino's. Then, I'm sorry,
you have permission to kill yourself. Everyone else, stay with me.
I once told someone that every choice he makes, every decision and every act weaves into the fiber of the person that he becomes. If he can choose
well, he can do great things. If he chooses poorly he will end up in prison, or rehab, or a dead end relationship or, worst case senario, GUEST writing a blog.
So Hemingway says live without. Deny yourself one more drink. Deny yourself your next conquest. Deny your self a cheeto or a brownie or an episode of
the Simpsons that you've already seen. We all have our own starting point. But once you've done that - see if you aren't stronger the next time. See if the
person you are becoming feels a little more realized. See if you can make that last. Live without.
- aml
bio: aml is a person that knows more than you. But probably not all that much more.
She has done a lot of livin' in the time she's been given and now she is happy.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Guest Bloggers
I've invited a few of my closest friends to write some guest posts for this blog, either anonymously or under their own names, because I feel the blog's perspective has narrowed considerably since I left new york and my friends.
I'm sure, dear reader, you must be getting tired of pictures of my dog and midwestern landscapes and stories of my wilderness adventures (though, today, I shaved my legs in the woods!! With just a towel, washcloth, soap, razor, and gallon of water! And they're so smooth. I used lots of lotion after, too, but I'm Nature Girl! I can do anything!).
So look forward to some new ideas, new directions, new methods of thought in the coming days (hopefully) or weeks (more realistically, knowing my friends). I think it will help the blog grow, and growth is good.
I'm sure, dear reader, you must be getting tired of pictures of my dog and midwestern landscapes and stories of my wilderness adventures (though, today, I shaved my legs in the woods!! With just a towel, washcloth, soap, razor, and gallon of water! And they're so smooth. I used lots of lotion after, too, but I'm Nature Girl! I can do anything!).
So look forward to some new ideas, new directions, new methods of thought in the coming days (hopefully) or weeks (more realistically, knowing my friends). I think it will help the blog grow, and growth is good.
Also, if you feel you have something to add via a guest post, email or DM me on (twitter) a proposal of what you'd like to talk about.
Submissions to this project can be about anything; a catalogue of your day, a childhood memory, a letter to a lost lover, your life philosophy, how you got to be who you are today, how you decide what to wear in the morning, your opinion re: brushing your teeth in the shower - write anything, just make it a reflection of YOU.
A correction to post titled "fame"
Infinite jest came out in 96, david foster wallace hanged himself in 08. That was just bad research. I apologize, dear reader.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Covered bridges, as they relate to my mom.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Fame
I'm a bit more than 400 pages into david foster wallace's infinite jest, which he hanged himself twelve years after publishing, and encountered this passage on fame that resonated with me. I've been having several conversations with different close friends and people whose opinions I value and trust, about how to measue the value of a person, what gives a life 'meaning,' and how fame factors into all of these different measures of value.
So, for obvious reasons, when it saw me this passage practically reached out and grabbed me by the throat.
So, for obvious reasons, when it saw me this passage practically reached out and grabbed me by the throat.
The context is a young athlete coming to a guru, concerned about the degree he which he BURNS to be famous. After some questions he concludes that he wants his photograph in the glossy magazines for the sense of meaning it must give to those famous men who are photographed, and who know people they'll never meet look at their photograph.
The guru responds:
"After the 1st photograph, the first magazine, the gratified surge, the seeing themselves as others see them, perhaps. ... After the first photograph has been in a magazine, the famous men do not ENJOY their photos being in magazines so much that they fear their photos will cease to appear in magazines. They are trapped. ... To be envied, to be admired, is not a feeling. Nor is fame a feeling. There are feelings associated with fame, but few of them are any more enjoyable than the feelings associated with envy of fame. ... There is much fear in fame. The truth is that world is incredibly, incredibly, unbelievably old. You suffer w the stunted desire caused by one of its oldest lies. Do not believe the photographs. Fame is not the exit from any cage."
(The student then says:)
"So I'm stuck in the cage from either side. Fame or tortured envy of fame."
(Guru:)
"You might consider that escape from a cage must surely require awareness of the fact of the cage..."
Anyway, if you're committed to literature and can adjust to a book that requires not just your full attention, but both of your hands, to read, you should pick this one up. I can't say whether I like it, but I'm enjoying the experience of reading it.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
the truth will set you free,
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Wilderness Girl
I'm spending this whole week in the woods, with daily excursions into towns or to lakes or different woods. Its been incredible. I wake up and untangle myself from my massive dog and decide what I feel like doin. Mostly we hike around the woods of the campsite.
I have to admit I do miss new york every day. Of course I do, its my home and my soul lives there, so I try to keep it alive in me by never sacrificing my fashion to convenience. I AM going to bring back the pillowcase dress. I wear it with motorcycle boots, bright red nails, and absolutely no jewelry. This is my look this summer, and I will not compromise it just bc, instead of getting the reaction I would in new york for bringing back deep-cut grunge fashion, the people here seem to think I'm a runaway.
Fuck em.
I spend my entire day reading, exploring the woods w nelson, napping, and writing.
My schedule.
We're both getting used to the abrupt lifestyle change. I do expect the adjustment to take some time, which is why we're staying at this first campsite so long. Built up to the truly nomaadic life.
Things I need:
More wine
Bugspray
Citronella candles
Dog bug spray? Is that a thing?
More blankets
More pillowcases
Battery-op fan
A book to read if I ever get through this one
To find my ipod
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
I have to admit I do miss new york every day. Of course I do, its my home and my soul lives there, so I try to keep it alive in me by never sacrificing my fashion to convenience. I AM going to bring back the pillowcase dress. I wear it with motorcycle boots, bright red nails, and absolutely no jewelry. This is my look this summer, and I will not compromise it just bc, instead of getting the reaction I would in new york for bringing back deep-cut grunge fashion, the people here seem to think I'm a runaway.
Fuck em.
I spend my entire day reading, exploring the woods w nelson, napping, and writing.
My schedule.
We're both getting used to the abrupt lifestyle change. I do expect the adjustment to take some time, which is why we're staying at this first campsite so long. Built up to the truly nomaadic life.
Things I need:
More wine
Bugspray
Citronella candles
Dog bug spray? Is that a thing?
More blankets
More pillowcases
Battery-op fan
A book to read if I ever get through this one
To find my ipod
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Saturday, July 16, 2011
camping, with an enormous, constantly terrified dog
arent dogs supposed to LIKE to wilderness?? not mine. mine likes sleeping in the car, and sitting directly on top of me. im sittting in the wilderness, under a fucking pine tree, trying to drink my wine and blog, as one does in the wilderness, and he is laying across my legs. he doesnt need a leash, he needs to be surgically removed from my body.
anyway, i left for my road trip today. we drove for 8 hours and will stay here for about a week. the rest of the trip will be less driving, and less time in one place. itll be more like, drive in the morning, explore in the afternoon. anyway, i dont really know what to do now. here we are. in the woods. 930pm. nelson wont eat dinner so i guess ill post pics of driving, drink more wine, take a valium, and do to bed?
these two are of the car all packed before we left this morning.
oh, nvm, mobile wireless = attachments are unavailable. well, fuck it then. back into the car, where there are fewer bugs. im thinking about making Dog sleep out here. build some fucking character.
anyway, i left for my road trip today. we drove for 8 hours and will stay here for about a week. the rest of the trip will be less driving, and less time in one place. itll be more like, drive in the morning, explore in the afternoon. anyway, i dont really know what to do now. here we are. in the woods. 930pm. nelson wont eat dinner so i guess ill post pics of driving, drink more wine, take a valium, and do to bed?
these two are of the car all packed before we left this morning.
oh, nvm, mobile wireless = attachments are unavailable. well, fuck it then. back into the car, where there are fewer bugs. im thinking about making Dog sleep out here. build some fucking character.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
short fiction, seven
I just woke up... It was only a few hours ago, to the sound of a vacuum being pushed around the upstairs hallway of my parents house, where I am currently staying. My parents regularly have different cleaning crews employed on a rotating weekly schedule to help them maintain the house. They live in the country so it gets quite dusty. Assuming one of these cleaning women (they are inevitably women) had simply not been told that I was not only sleeping in an upstairs room but am accustomed to sleeping late, I tried to ignore the sound and to go back to sleep.
Several minutes later, however, the vacuuming woman progressed into my room. I am far from a morning person and felt particularly groggy today, so I tossed around on the bed a bit continuing to feign sleep, hoping this woman would notice me and leave the room without any conversation being necessary. To my increasing alarm, I then heard her opening the drawers of my bedside table and knew I would have to interrupt her directly.
“Excuse me, I don’t believe you’re meant to be cleaning this end of the house.”
“Sorry, Miss Reisner, but we’ve been instructed to search this room for drug paraphernalia.”
I quickly weighed whether whatever they – it was now apparent that two women were searching my room – would find anything worth fully waking up for and decided that the simple affront to my privacy was enough to get me out of bed, despite my abnormal drowsiness this morning.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but as you can see, I’m sleeping in here, and I’m very sure my parents would not send you in here to rummage through my personal things,” I said sternly, attempting to raise myself with my left arm into a sitting position.
The look of shock on my face as I collapsed back onto the bed set the two women laughing as they informed me that “we weren’t sent here by your parents, and we don’t need your consent to search the room.” When the woman speaking saw my mouth open to form a response she nodded toward the girl leaning on the wall near my bedroom door and further explained “Maggie, from the room next door, says she has reason to believe you’ve been doing drugs in here. We have to search the room.”
My eyebrows drew together in what I’m told is my least attractive facial expression as I took in this new information. Maggie from the room next door? I slid my legs over the side of the bed, my voice getting louder, “Now, what exact-” and was interrupted by the their laughter again as I fell heavily to the floor. Apparently my legs had decided to call it quits this morning.
“What exactly do you plan to do?” asked the elder woman, looking over her shoulder as she stood on tip-toe to run her hand along the top surface of my bookcase.
After several failed attempts to stand on my legs, which continued in their refusal to support me, I thought for a moment from the floor.
“Wait…” I managed after some time, “no one lives in the room next door,” I now looked directly at this ‘Maggie’ and said “so who the fuck are you?”
This aggression, along with my ability to hoist myself up by and support myself standing using the windowsill, caused the two to look at each quickly.
I continued, “well, who are you?? What the fuck are you doing here?!” I came closer, holding myself up by my bed-frame and feeling my legs get stronger as I walked. The women packed their things abruptly as I shouted them out of my room “who the fuck are you?! How did you get into my house??”
As they ran out of my room, other pairs of women darted out of the other bedrooms on the upper floor and followed the first pair in running down the stairs. I chased them all, albeit slowly and weakly, as they had clearly drugged me to make my legs flop in every direction but forward.
I pulled myself into the kitchen to find eight women dressed like maids, surrounding a grizzled Samuel L Jackson-from-the-latter-half-of-Pulp-Fiction looking man seated calmly on my kitchen counter. One of the younger women began to introduce him, “This is our Professor, and we-” but I cut her off, irately.
“What the fuck do you people think you’re doing in this house?? And searching the rooms?! A professor?? Of WHAT??” were all the questions I managed to get our before falling, once again, gracelessly to the kitchen floor. The Samuel L Jackson-from-the-latter-half-of-Pulp-Fiction looking man lowered himself calmly from the granite kitchen countertop my mother had selected herself and clasped his hands. As he walked toward me, and, I’m forced to admit, he did walk very academically, I noticed the sticky, purplish prints left by his shoes on the black and white tile floor.
It’s strange, what goes through a person’s head at time like these. When I saw the purplish hue of those dark and sticky footprints progressing toward me, I thought that if this had been Pulp Fiction, Tarantino would have made the footprints more red, to better contrast the black and white tile floor.
Several minutes later, however, the vacuuming woman progressed into my room. I am far from a morning person and felt particularly groggy today, so I tossed around on the bed a bit continuing to feign sleep, hoping this woman would notice me and leave the room without any conversation being necessary. To my increasing alarm, I then heard her opening the drawers of my bedside table and knew I would have to interrupt her directly.
“Excuse me, I don’t believe you’re meant to be cleaning this end of the house.”
“Sorry, Miss Reisner, but we’ve been instructed to search this room for drug paraphernalia.”
I quickly weighed whether whatever they – it was now apparent that two women were searching my room – would find anything worth fully waking up for and decided that the simple affront to my privacy was enough to get me out of bed, despite my abnormal drowsiness this morning.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but as you can see, I’m sleeping in here, and I’m very sure my parents would not send you in here to rummage through my personal things,” I said sternly, attempting to raise myself with my left arm into a sitting position.
The look of shock on my face as I collapsed back onto the bed set the two women laughing as they informed me that “we weren’t sent here by your parents, and we don’t need your consent to search the room.” When the woman speaking saw my mouth open to form a response she nodded toward the girl leaning on the wall near my bedroom door and further explained “Maggie, from the room next door, says she has reason to believe you’ve been doing drugs in here. We have to search the room.”
My eyebrows drew together in what I’m told is my least attractive facial expression as I took in this new information. Maggie from the room next door? I slid my legs over the side of the bed, my voice getting louder, “Now, what exact-” and was interrupted by the their laughter again as I fell heavily to the floor. Apparently my legs had decided to call it quits this morning.
“What exactly do you plan to do?” asked the elder woman, looking over her shoulder as she stood on tip-toe to run her hand along the top surface of my bookcase.
After several failed attempts to stand on my legs, which continued in their refusal to support me, I thought for a moment from the floor.
“Wait…” I managed after some time, “no one lives in the room next door,” I now looked directly at this ‘Maggie’ and said “so who the fuck are you?”
This aggression, along with my ability to hoist myself up by and support myself standing using the windowsill, caused the two to look at each quickly.
I continued, “well, who are you?? What the fuck are you doing here?!” I came closer, holding myself up by my bed-frame and feeling my legs get stronger as I walked. The women packed their things abruptly as I shouted them out of my room “who the fuck are you?! How did you get into my house??”
As they ran out of my room, other pairs of women darted out of the other bedrooms on the upper floor and followed the first pair in running down the stairs. I chased them all, albeit slowly and weakly, as they had clearly drugged me to make my legs flop in every direction but forward.
I pulled myself into the kitchen to find eight women dressed like maids, surrounding a grizzled Samuel L Jackson-from-the-latter-half-of-Pulp-Fiction looking man seated calmly on my kitchen counter. One of the younger women began to introduce him, “This is our Professor, and we-” but I cut her off, irately.
“What the fuck do you people think you’re doing in this house?? And searching the rooms?! A professor?? Of WHAT??” were all the questions I managed to get our before falling, once again, gracelessly to the kitchen floor. The Samuel L Jackson-from-the-latter-half-of-Pulp-Fiction looking man lowered himself calmly from the granite kitchen countertop my mother had selected herself and clasped his hands. As he walked toward me, and, I’m forced to admit, he did walk very academically, I noticed the sticky, purplish prints left by his shoes on the black and white tile floor.
It’s strange, what goes through a person’s head at time like these. When I saw the purplish hue of those dark and sticky footprints progressing toward me, I thought that if this had been Pulp Fiction, Tarantino would have made the footprints more red, to better contrast the black and white tile floor.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
my mom's birthday
last year around this time she and i got matching little blue flowers. hers is about an inch across and on top of her right foot. mines slightly larger and on my left forearm.
when considering what to get for the birthday of the single greatest person who has ever lived, my dad and i just broke it down to "what does she love?"
answer: what she loves most is family and family time.
so we scheduled a 7pm appt with dominic (http://iatattoo.com/pages/dominic.php) at infinite art in toledo where all three of us would get tattoos together. who does that?? i love them so much.
my mom went first. she wasnt very nervous because she knew from last time that it would hurt like hell (the foot is one of the most painful places to tattoo), but she was very specific. i think dominic worked with her for about an hour before she decided on what she wanted to embellish her blue flower. she took it like a champ.
look at her. the woman's a soldier.
she wanted the addition to her tattoo to incorporate the 3 pairs of initials that make up our little family (LR, JR, AE) and the quote that my dad decided on "and so it goes". i cant get over how beautifully it turned out.
my dads turn came next and he acted so scared i thought he'd puss out for sure, but dominic said he was playing it up for the fun. he certainly didnt take as well as mom did.
he spent the whole 15 minutes it took for dominic to tattoo him talking shit:
"men have a lower pain tolerance"
"women have to go through pain bc of childbearing."
etc.
i think it turned out exactly the way - dominic said something during our 6 hour hang today, that tattooing is like sculpting. he tries to see the image as organically of the body and his job as peeling the skin away. i think it was like that for my dad. hed been talking about putting those words on his arm for a long time. we're a family of vonnegut fans.
after both of them got their new tattoos wrapped up, they left because it was 930 at this point and my moms birthday dinner blahblah
i really wanted to get the dagger on my leg finished / filled in with whimsical, nonsensical colors and designs, but we didnt have the time. i needed to have a small black text tattoo covered, and im so happy with it. it is so beautiful. i always fall in love with men who are incredibly good at what they do (writers, musicians, chefs, athletes, any man who takes full advantage of his talent) probably because its a power thing. i therefore have an enormous crush on dominic, because his work is so, so beautiful.
outlined -
and colored in -
and my favorite pic, bc it shows how he used the quote to connect the two flowers into a complementary unit -
when considering what to get for the birthday of the single greatest person who has ever lived, my dad and i just broke it down to "what does she love?"
answer: what she loves most is family and family time.
so we scheduled a 7pm appt with dominic (http://iatattoo.com/pages/dominic.php) at infinite art in toledo where all three of us would get tattoos together. who does that?? i love them so much.
my mom went first. she wasnt very nervous because she knew from last time that it would hurt like hell (the foot is one of the most painful places to tattoo), but she was very specific. i think dominic worked with her for about an hour before she decided on what she wanted to embellish her blue flower. she took it like a champ.
she wanted the addition to her tattoo to incorporate the 3 pairs of initials that make up our little family (LR, JR, AE) and the quote that my dad decided on "and so it goes". i cant get over how beautifully it turned out.
my dads turn came next and he acted so scared i thought he'd puss out for sure, but dominic said he was playing it up for the fun. he certainly didnt take as well as mom did.
he spent the whole 15 minutes it took for dominic to tattoo him talking shit:
"men have a lower pain tolerance"
"women have to go through pain bc of childbearing."
etc.
i think it turned out exactly the way - dominic said something during our 6 hour hang today, that tattooing is like sculpting. he tries to see the image as organically of the body and his job as peeling the skin away. i think it was like that for my dad. hed been talking about putting those words on his arm for a long time. we're a family of vonnegut fans.
after both of them got their new tattoos wrapped up, they left because it was 930 at this point and my moms birthday dinner blahblah
i really wanted to get the dagger on my leg finished / filled in with whimsical, nonsensical colors and designs, but we didnt have the time. i needed to have a small black text tattoo covered, and im so happy with it. it is so beautiful. i always fall in love with men who are incredibly good at what they do (writers, musicians, chefs, athletes, any man who takes full advantage of his talent) probably because its a power thing. i therefore have an enormous crush on dominic, because his work is so, so beautiful.
outlined -
and colored in -
and my favorite pic, bc it shows how he used the quote to connect the two flowers into a complementary unit -
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
im having a significant week (the never ending blog post)
yesterday, i had a fantastic brunch with my parents. it used to be we couldnt eat out in public because one of three things would happen: one of us would storm out while the other two tried to convince the first that we were joking, two of us would get into a shouting match that would only end when the third began sobbing, or each one of us would be so offended at what one of the others said that we would just eat in silence. but none of those things happened. we even stayed at the table after we'd eaten and the food had been cleared just to keep talking to each other. if youd told me that would happen a year ago, two years ago, even three years ago, i never would have believed you. i cant explain on a blog how we got through everything we did to get this place, this peaceful-and-funny-and-loving-brunch place, because the story is greater than this medium, but i am so happy. i feel so light and peaceful and... anyway, it was a wonderful brunch.
when i write my book maybe youll find traces of it in a short story or the history of it in a novel (god, i hope i have a novel in me), but youll never get the full story in a memoir unless i turn out to be a less Good writer than i think i could be. i have to write, so i will rather im Good or not, but i think memoirs are cheap compared to fiction and ill only write one if i cant write as well as i think i can.
today around 11 there was a terrific rain storm. just yesterday all the corn was about thigh-high, exactly as tall as its supposed to be this time of year and the stalks were so proudly getting taller, and, this afternoon as i drove by the fields, i saw that they had just been decimated. all the stalks were bent and broken in nonsensical patterns. it was the most horrible sight. the farmers had barely coaxed that corn into its knee-high by fourth of july deadline because it hasnt rained here in weeks, and now acres and acres are lost. luckily the wheat across the street had been bundled and brought in early this morning.
the storm had a personal impact on my day too though. as you know, nelson is becoming increasingly afraid of things he doesnt understand (lightning bugs, any loud noises at all - the 4th was horrible for him - water coming out of the hose, wind - esp when it blows flags or through tall grass). He's a 155 lb wimp. My parents have two dogs as well, english springer spaniels. The oldest is Webster, who i remember adopting when i was in the 6th grade, he followed me everywhere around the house for weeks, and Bianca, two years younger than Webster though she acts like a puppy, and who i named for bianca jagger. webster's completely deaf, so he couldnt care less about sudden noises. bianca is afraid of them, but not as badly as nelson. this thunderstorm made him shake, his whole body. he sleeps on my bed (its a big bed) so i woke to the bed vibrating because he was so afraid of the thunder, went downstairs to find bianca in a similar state, and so led the whole troupe down to the basement and under a table in a quiet corner. we camped out there til the rain ended.
then i took nelson to the vet to talk about his increasing anxiety issues. basically, soon after i got him i fucked up by not 'rescuing' him when he was scared and now he thinks i cant protect him. this has put him in a constant neurotic crisis about whether, if shit goes down, he could or should protect me since he thinks i cant protect him. the vet gave me a list of drills to do to increase his confidence before friday, but she also prescribed prozac. when she handed me the script she said "that may seem like a high dose, but he's a very big dog, and we'll see if this helps his anxiety." i looked at the script and its the same as my daily dose. i dont want to consider the possibility that my crazy is contagious and has infected him.
after his appt i drove up to ann arbor with my dad to see about spending some of my money on a car for this trip. i drove a subaru forester in hs, so we decided on a newer model for the trip. i needed something with a tall ceiling, rear seats that fold down, and a leather interior for nelson, something with multiple chargers since ill be living in it, and something safe and reliable since im not a great driver and wouldnt be able to repair a damn thing. so, long story short, my father is a legal genius and one of the most brilliant business minds living, and i drove it off the lot!
its been pointed out to me that as a tattooed, short haired girl, with a big dog, driving a subaru, i may give off a bit of a lezzy vibe. i have two responses:
1)ive never met a girl who loves (i have to edit myself here because my parents read this) as much as i do, i consider it an art form, and i will gladly compete against any challenger, bc i know myself to be that good.
2) this trip is about finding Alexandra Elisabeth the Adult by exploring the country my passport says i represent (bonus pts if you can name the artist or song i stole that line from) and i believe that sexuality is a sliding scale. maybe i can love a nice (edit) and also appreciate girl parts. its not like ive ever really tried just girl-girl stuff. girl-boy-girl 3ways definitely dont count. thats an entirely unique power dynamic.
so maybe i am a little dykey? this trip is about experiencing what ive never experienced and learning as much as possible, and thats certainly one thing i dont know much about.
so i drove the subaru home with all the windows and the moonroof (like a sunroof, but 2x as big) all the way open with classic rock radio blasting. if youre ever near toledo, 104.7 wiot played some deep cut def leppard, and kept me rocking the whole hour from ann arbor.
in other news, the eldest of my four little bio-brothers is ten years old, and, of all of them, is the most like my mom and me. he has been saying some incredible shit lately. he was recently at space camp and sent a letter home, im not making a word of this up; "Mom, i'm dead. i went to heaven. (line break) oh, and i met some kids and stuff." and just now he walked up to my mom and said "mom, i think i really need to be a bass player. i want to be more like flea."
i mean, seriously??? coolest ten yr old EVER. btw he's played guitar for years.
it is now officially tuesday, my moms birthday. at 7 tonight my parents and i have an appt with dominic (http://iatattoo.com/pages/dominic.php) who has done my shotgun tattoo, my mermaids, and a few others, to get tattooed! all three of us!! if youre in the area, i highly recommend him. he's not only a Great Artist but a Good Man, and those are hard to find.
and then wednesday will happen, then thursday will happen (and ill get four cavities filled) and then friday i start my roadtrip!!!!!
ps.
check out alihillard.com. seriously. she's been my soul sister from kindergarten til now and i love her and she just graduated art school and her shit is no fucking joke.
when i write my book maybe youll find traces of it in a short story or the history of it in a novel (god, i hope i have a novel in me), but youll never get the full story in a memoir unless i turn out to be a less Good writer than i think i could be. i have to write, so i will rather im Good or not, but i think memoirs are cheap compared to fiction and ill only write one if i cant write as well as i think i can.
today around 11 there was a terrific rain storm. just yesterday all the corn was about thigh-high, exactly as tall as its supposed to be this time of year and the stalks were so proudly getting taller, and, this afternoon as i drove by the fields, i saw that they had just been decimated. all the stalks were bent and broken in nonsensical patterns. it was the most horrible sight. the farmers had barely coaxed that corn into its knee-high by fourth of july deadline because it hasnt rained here in weeks, and now acres and acres are lost. luckily the wheat across the street had been bundled and brought in early this morning.
the storm had a personal impact on my day too though. as you know, nelson is becoming increasingly afraid of things he doesnt understand (lightning bugs, any loud noises at all - the 4th was horrible for him - water coming out of the hose, wind - esp when it blows flags or through tall grass). He's a 155 lb wimp. My parents have two dogs as well, english springer spaniels. The oldest is Webster, who i remember adopting when i was in the 6th grade, he followed me everywhere around the house for weeks, and Bianca, two years younger than Webster though she acts like a puppy, and who i named for bianca jagger. webster's completely deaf, so he couldnt care less about sudden noises. bianca is afraid of them, but not as badly as nelson. this thunderstorm made him shake, his whole body. he sleeps on my bed (its a big bed) so i woke to the bed vibrating because he was so afraid of the thunder, went downstairs to find bianca in a similar state, and so led the whole troupe down to the basement and under a table in a quiet corner. we camped out there til the rain ended.
then i took nelson to the vet to talk about his increasing anxiety issues. basically, soon after i got him i fucked up by not 'rescuing' him when he was scared and now he thinks i cant protect him. this has put him in a constant neurotic crisis about whether, if shit goes down, he could or should protect me since he thinks i cant protect him. the vet gave me a list of drills to do to increase his confidence before friday, but she also prescribed prozac. when she handed me the script she said "that may seem like a high dose, but he's a very big dog, and we'll see if this helps his anxiety." i looked at the script and its the same as my daily dose. i dont want to consider the possibility that my crazy is contagious and has infected him.
after his appt i drove up to ann arbor with my dad to see about spending some of my money on a car for this trip. i drove a subaru forester in hs, so we decided on a newer model for the trip. i needed something with a tall ceiling, rear seats that fold down, and a leather interior for nelson, something with multiple chargers since ill be living in it, and something safe and reliable since im not a great driver and wouldnt be able to repair a damn thing. so, long story short, my father is a legal genius and one of the most brilliant business minds living, and i drove it off the lot!
its been pointed out to me that as a tattooed, short haired girl, with a big dog, driving a subaru, i may give off a bit of a lezzy vibe. i have two responses:
1)ive never met a girl who loves (i have to edit myself here because my parents read this) as much as i do, i consider it an art form, and i will gladly compete against any challenger, bc i know myself to be that good.
2) this trip is about finding Alexandra Elisabeth the Adult by exploring the country my passport says i represent (bonus pts if you can name the artist or song i stole that line from) and i believe that sexuality is a sliding scale. maybe i can love a nice (edit) and also appreciate girl parts. its not like ive ever really tried just girl-girl stuff. girl-boy-girl 3ways definitely dont count. thats an entirely unique power dynamic.
so maybe i am a little dykey? this trip is about experiencing what ive never experienced and learning as much as possible, and thats certainly one thing i dont know much about.
so i drove the subaru home with all the windows and the moonroof (like a sunroof, but 2x as big) all the way open with classic rock radio blasting. if youre ever near toledo, 104.7 wiot played some deep cut def leppard, and kept me rocking the whole hour from ann arbor.
in other news, the eldest of my four little bio-brothers is ten years old, and, of all of them, is the most like my mom and me. he has been saying some incredible shit lately. he was recently at space camp and sent a letter home, im not making a word of this up; "Mom, i'm dead. i went to heaven. (line break) oh, and i met some kids and stuff." and just now he walked up to my mom and said "mom, i think i really need to be a bass player. i want to be more like flea."
i mean, seriously??? coolest ten yr old EVER. btw he's played guitar for years.
it is now officially tuesday, my moms birthday. at 7 tonight my parents and i have an appt with dominic (http://iatattoo.com/pages/dominic.php) who has done my shotgun tattoo, my mermaids, and a few others, to get tattooed! all three of us!! if youre in the area, i highly recommend him. he's not only a Great Artist but a Good Man, and those are hard to find.
and then wednesday will happen, then thursday will happen (and ill get four cavities filled) and then friday i start my roadtrip!!!!!
ps.
check out alihillard.com. seriously. she's been my soul sister from kindergarten til now and i love her and she just graduated art school and her shit is no fucking joke.
Friday, July 8, 2011
short fiction, six
Your best friend, one half of your intervention, lives across the hall from him and the two of you hear his music playing when you come home one night.
You walk into his loft around three am. You play it cool because you don’t want him to see how impressed you are by his space. (He sees, and he sees that you already don’t want him to think that you’re easily impressed, and he smiles at the game.) Walking into it feels overly intimate, but he designed it that way – to feel like the inside of his head.
You’ll learn later that, just like his head, it is capable of sudden and complete change, that the yellow bulbs that drew you in and made you feel real will change to red neon around six am when he’s been up for days and the mocking encouragement leaves his smile and he’s angry enough to throw furniture or fuck and you’ll take it in the king-sized bed in the middle of the loft, or on the old leather couch under the shelves and shelves of his work, catalogued in manila folders and on VHS, published and unpublished, because you’ll be afraid of him. But you’ll like it more. You'll love the power in him, even when it scares you and makes you scream, because it’ll be new. Because you’ll feel it. Because it'll be real. Because it’ll be such a contrast to the man you love who hasn’t experienced an emotion half as raw in the entire time you’ve known him, who accidentally hints that he once had a power like this but buried it so long ago it’s probably died, who carries that void around with him and can’t decide if he’ll let you fill it.
But this violent desperation, this violence is terror in bliss coming at you with the full force of a man who wears the strength of his flesh proudly. The tattooed hands will close around your neck with an anger and vitality you’ve never known.
And later still you’ll learn about that space during the day. The cold blue morning light will wake you naked in that bed in the middle of all that open space except the space will be filled with people rushing around you, packing lenses and batteries and cameras and flashbulbs into cases and shouting questions to him. You’ll feel exposed to these strangers, but they won’t see your face. They’ll just see another bony naked girl stretched across his bed, one of the many you’ll find out about even later. The whole strange ten am circus will rush out the door and you’ll catch his eye as he grabs his bag to leave. He’ll tell you to order groceries if you get hungry, that the FreshDirect guys know him, that you can stay until six but then you’ll have to go because his family is coming over.
“and for god’s sake, clean up all the fucking dope.” before the door slams.
And he’ll go to work on whatever project he has going and you’ll roll over. That deep emptiness in you will ache and you’ll look at your body in the clinical morning light and know the new bruises aren’t causing the new pain and you’ll wonder how it got like this.
But right now you’re just sitting in his space. You take the pill he offers you even though you’re sitting next to the friend who’s trying to get you off drugs because he tells you it’s a pharmaceutical. that warm yellow light drips over you like syrup, eroding your insides. He and your best friend are exchanging stories and you’re laughing and feeling the pull of both of them like you’re balancing between good and evil but you don’t know yet which is which or how completely sinister and wholly pristine each of them can truly be. You’re just sitting on the floor, looking up at them, the blonde one with the perfect skin on your right and the dark haired one with tattoos and an energy like a black hole on your left, and they’re both smiling down at you.
You’ll be on your bike the next night at one am going back to his loft because you’ll have spent the whole day wondering about him and on the way you’ll get a text from the man you love even though you haven’t heard from him since the intervention.
It’ll say “just dont do drugs w/ him.”
You walk into his loft around three am. You play it cool because you don’t want him to see how impressed you are by his space. (He sees, and he sees that you already don’t want him to think that you’re easily impressed, and he smiles at the game.) Walking into it feels overly intimate, but he designed it that way – to feel like the inside of his head.
You’ll learn later that, just like his head, it is capable of sudden and complete change, that the yellow bulbs that drew you in and made you feel real will change to red neon around six am when he’s been up for days and the mocking encouragement leaves his smile and he’s angry enough to throw furniture or fuck and you’ll take it in the king-sized bed in the middle of the loft, or on the old leather couch under the shelves and shelves of his work, catalogued in manila folders and on VHS, published and unpublished, because you’ll be afraid of him. But you’ll like it more. You'll love the power in him, even when it scares you and makes you scream, because it’ll be new. Because you’ll feel it. Because it'll be real. Because it’ll be such a contrast to the man you love who hasn’t experienced an emotion half as raw in the entire time you’ve known him, who accidentally hints that he once had a power like this but buried it so long ago it’s probably died, who carries that void around with him and can’t decide if he’ll let you fill it.
But this violent desperation, this violence is terror in bliss coming at you with the full force of a man who wears the strength of his flesh proudly. The tattooed hands will close around your neck with an anger and vitality you’ve never known.
And later still you’ll learn about that space during the day. The cold blue morning light will wake you naked in that bed in the middle of all that open space except the space will be filled with people rushing around you, packing lenses and batteries and cameras and flashbulbs into cases and shouting questions to him. You’ll feel exposed to these strangers, but they won’t see your face. They’ll just see another bony naked girl stretched across his bed, one of the many you’ll find out about even later. The whole strange ten am circus will rush out the door and you’ll catch his eye as he grabs his bag to leave. He’ll tell you to order groceries if you get hungry, that the FreshDirect guys know him, that you can stay until six but then you’ll have to go because his family is coming over.
“and for god’s sake, clean up all the fucking dope.” before the door slams.
And he’ll go to work on whatever project he has going and you’ll roll over. That deep emptiness in you will ache and you’ll look at your body in the clinical morning light and know the new bruises aren’t causing the new pain and you’ll wonder how it got like this.
But right now you’re just sitting in his space. You take the pill he offers you even though you’re sitting next to the friend who’s trying to get you off drugs because he tells you it’s a pharmaceutical. that warm yellow light drips over you like syrup, eroding your insides. He and your best friend are exchanging stories and you’re laughing and feeling the pull of both of them like you’re balancing between good and evil but you don’t know yet which is which or how completely sinister and wholly pristine each of them can truly be. You’re just sitting on the floor, looking up at them, the blonde one with the perfect skin on your right and the dark haired one with tattoos and an energy like a black hole on your left, and they’re both smiling down at you.
You’ll be on your bike the next night at one am going back to his loft because you’ll have spent the whole day wondering about him and on the way you’ll get a text from the man you love even though you haven’t heard from him since the intervention.
It’ll say “just dont do drugs w/ him.”
the solitude of self,
(emphasis mine)
Elizabeth Cady Stanton
delivered to the Committee of the Judiciary of the United States Congress
January 18, 1892
Mr. Chairman and gentlemen of the committee: We have been speaking before Committees of the Judiciary for the last twenty years, and we have gone over all the arguments in favor of a sixteenth amendment which are familiar to all you gentlemen; therefore, it will not be necessary that I should repeat them again.
The point I wish plainly to bring before you on this occasion is the individuality of each human soul; our Protestant idea, the right of individual conscience and judgment-our republican idea, individual citizenship. In discussing the rights of woman, we are to consider, first, what belongs to her as an individual, in a world of her own, the arbiter of her own destiny, an imaginary Robinson Crusoe with her woman Friday on a solitary island. Her rights under such circumstances are to use all her faculties for her own safety and happiness.
Secondly, if we consider her as a citizen, as a member of a great nation, she must have the same rights as all other members, according to the fundamental principles of our Government.
Thirdly, viewed as a woman, an equal factor in civilization, her rights and duties are still the same-individual happiness and development.
Fourthly, it is only the incidental relations of life, such as mother, wife, sister, daughter, that may involve some special duties and training. In the usual discussion in regard to woman's sphere, such as men as Herbert Spencer, Frederic Harrison, and Grant Allen uniformly subordinate her rights and duties as an individual, as a citizen, as a woman, to the necessities of these incidental relations, some of which a large class of woman may never assume. In discussing the sphere of man we do not decide his rights as an individual, as a citizen, as a man by his duties as a father, a husband, a brother, or a son, relations some of which he may never fill. Moreover he would be better fitted for these very relations and whatever special work he might choose to do to earn his bread by the complete development of all his faculties as an individual.
Just so with woman. The education that will fit her to discharge the duties in the largest sphere of human usefulness will best fit her for whatever special work she may be compelled to do.
The isolation of every human soul and the necessity of self-dependence must give each individual the right, to choose his own surroundings.
The strongest reason for giving woman all the opportunities for higher education, for the full development of her faculties, forces of mind and body; for giving her the most enlarged freedom of thought and action; a complete emancipation from all forms of bondage, of custom, dependence, superstition; from all the crippling influences of fear, is the solitude and personal responsibility of her own individual life. The strongest reason why we ask for woman a voice in the government under which she lives; in the religion she is asked to believe; equality in social life, where she is the chief factor; a place in the trades and professions, where she may earn her bread, is because of her birthright to self-sovereignty; because, as an individual, she must rely on herself. No matter how much women prefer to lean, to be protected and supported, nor how much men desire to have them do so, they must make the voyage of life alone, and for safety in an emergency they must know something of the laws of navigation. To guide our own craft, we must be captain, pilot, engineer; with chart and compass to stand at the wheel; to match the wind and waves and know when to take in the sail, and to read the signs in the firmament over all. It matters not whether the solitary voyager is man or woman.
Nature having endowed them equally, leaves them to their own skill and judgment in the hour of danger, and, if not equal to the occasion, alike they perish.
The appreciate the importance of fitting every human soul for independent action, think for a moment of the immeasurable solitude of self. We come into the world alone, unlike all who have gone before us; we leave it alone under circumstances peculiar to ourselves. No mortal ever has been, no mortal over will be like the soul just launched on the sea of life. There can never again be just such environments as make up the infancy, youth and manhood of this one. Nature never repeats herself, and the possibilities of one human soul will never be found in another. No one has ever found two blades of ribbon grass alike, and no one will never find two human beings alike. Seeing, then, what must be the infinite diversity in human, character, we can in a measure appreciate the loss to a nation when any large class of the people in uneducated and unrepresented in the government. We ask for the complete development of every individual, first, for his own benefit and happiness. In fitting out an army we give each soldier his own knapsack, arms, powder, his blanket, cup, knife, fork and spoon. We provide alike for all their individual necessities, then each man bears his own burden.
Again we ask complete individual development for the general good; for the consensus of the competent on the whole round of human interest; on all questions of national life, and here each man must bear his share of the general burden. It is sad to see how soon friendless children are left to bear their own burdens before they can analise their feelings; before they can even tell their joys and sorrows, they are thrown on their own resources. The great lesson that nature seems to teach us at all ages is self-dependence, self-protection, self-support. What a touching instance of a child's solitude; of that hunger of heart for love and recognition, in the case of the little girl who helped to dress a christmas tree for the children of the family in which she served. On finding there was no present for herself she slipped away in the darkness and spent the night in an open field sitting on a stone, and when found in the morning was weeping as if her heart would break. No mortal will ever know the thoughts that passed through the mind of that friendless child in the long hours of that cold night, with only the silent stars to keep her company. The mention of her case in the daily papers moved many generous hearts to send her presents, but in the hours of her keenest sufferings she was thrown wholly on herself for consolation.
In youth our most bitter disappointments, our brighest hopes and ambitions are known only to otherwise, even our friendship and love we never fully share with another; there is something of every passion in every situation we conceal. Even so in our triumphs and our defeats.
The successful candidate for Presidency and his opponent each have a solitude peculiarly his own, and good form forbide either in speak of his pleasure or regret. The solitude of the king on his throne and the prisoner in his cell differs in character and degree, but it is solitude nevertheless.
We ask no sympathy from others in the anxiety and agony of a broken friendship or shattered love. When death sunders our nearest ties, alone we sit in the shadows of our affliction. Alike mid the greatest triumphs and darkest tragedies of life we walk alone. On the devine heights of human attainments, eulogized land worshiped as a hero or saint, we stand alone. In ignorance, poverty, and vice, as a pauper or criminal, alone we starve or steal; alone we suffer the sneers and rebuffs of our fellows; alone we are hunted and hounded thro dark courts and alleys, in by-ways and highways; alone we stand in the judgment seat; alone in the prison cell we lament our crimes and misfortunes; alone we expiate them on the gallows. In hours like these we realize the awful solitude of individual life, its pains, its penalties, its responsibilities; hours in which the youngest and most helpless are thrown on their own resources for guidance and consolation. Seeing then that life must ever be a march and a battle, that each soldier must be equipped for his own protection, it is the height of cruelty to rob the individual of a single natural right.
To throw obstacle in the way of a complete education is like putting out the eyes; to deny the rights of property, like cutting off the hands. To deny political equality is to rob the ostracised of all self-respect; of credit in the market place; of recompense in the world of work; of a voice among those who make and administer the law; a choice in the jury before whom they are tried, and in the judge who decides their punishment. Shakespeare's play of Titus and Andronicus contains a terrible satire on woman's position in the nineteenth century-"Rude men" (the play tells us) "seized the king's daughter, cut out her tongue, out off her hands, and then bade her go call for water and wash her hands." What a picture of woman's position. Robbed of her natural rights, handicapped by law and custom at every turn, yet compelled to fight her own battles, and in the emergencies of life to fall back on herself for protection.
The girl of sixteen, thrown on the world to support herself, to make her own place in society, to resist the temptations that surround her and maintain a spotless integrity, must do all this by native force or superior education. She does not acquire this power by being trained to trust others and distrust herself. If she wearies of the struggle, finding it hard work to swim upstream, and allow herself to drift with the current, she will find plenty of company, but not one to share her misery in the hour of her deepest humilation. If she tried to retrieve her position, to conceal the past, her life is hedged about with fears last willing hands should tear the veil from what she fain would hide. Young and friendless, she knows the bitter solitude of self.
How the little courtesies of life on the surface of society, deemed so important from man towards woman, fade into utter insignificance in view of the deeper tragedies in which she must play her part alone, where no human aid is possible.
The youngwife and mother, at the head of some establishment with a kind husband to shield her from the adverse winds of life, with wealth, fortune and position, has a certain harbor of safety, occurs against the ordinary ills of life. But to manage a household, have a deatrable influence in society, keep her friends and the affections of her husband, train her children and servants well, she must have rare common sense, wisdom, diplomacy, and a knowledge of human nature. To do all this she needs the cardinal virtues and the strong points of character that the most succesful stateman possesses.
An uneducated woman, trained to dependence, with no resources in herself must make a failure of any position in life. But society says women do not need a knowledge of the world, the liberal training that experience in public life must give, all the advantages of collegiate education; but when for the lock of all this, the woman's happiness is wrecked, alone she bears her humiliation; and the attitude of the weak and the ignorant in indeed pitiful in the wild chase for the price of life they are ground to powder.
In age, when the pleasures of youth are passed, children grown up, married and gone, the hurry and hustle of life in a measure over, when the hands are weary of active service, when the old armchair and the fireside are the chosen resorts, then men and women alike must fall back on their own resources. If they cannot find companionship in books, if they have no interest in the vital questions of the hour, no interest in watching the consummation of reforms, with which they might have been identified, they soon pass into their dotage. The more fully the faculties of the mind are developed and kept in use, the longer the period of vigor and active interest in all around us continues. If from a lifelong participation in public affairs a woman feels responsible for the laws regulating our system of education, the discipline of our jails and prisons, the sanitary conditions of our private homes, public buildings, and thoroughfares, an interest in commerce, finance, our foreign relations, in any or all of these questions, here solitude will at least be respectable, and she will not be driven to gossip or scandal for entertainment.
The chief reason for opening to every soul the doors to the whole round of human duties an pleasures is the individual development thus attained, the resources thus provided under all circumstances to mitigate the solitude that at times must come to everyone. I once asked Prince Krapotkin, the Russian nihilist, how he endured his long years in prison, deprived of books, pen, ink, and paper. "Ah," he said, "I thought out many questions in which I had a deep interest. In the pursuit of an idea I took no note of time. When tired of solving knotty problems I recited all the beautiful passages in prose or verse I have ever learned. I became acquainted with myself and my own resources. I had a world of my own, a vast empire, that no Russian jailor or Czar could invade." Such is the value of liberal thought and broad culture when shut off from all human companionship, bringing comfort and sunshine within even the four walls of a prison cell.
As women of times share a similar fate, should they not have all the consolation that the most liberal education can give? Their suffering in the prisons of St. Petersburg; in the long, weary marches to Siberia, and in the mines, working side by side with men, surely call for all the self-support that the most exalted sentiments of heroism can give. When suddenly roused at midnight, with the startling cry of "fire! fire!" to find the house over their heads in flames, do women wait for men to point the way to safety? And are the men, equally bewildered and half suffocated with smoke, in a position to more than try to save themselves?
At such times the most timid women have shown a courage and heroism in saving their husbands and children that has surprise everybody. Inasmuch, then, as woman shares equally the joys and sorrows of time and eternity, is it not the height of presumption in man to propose to represent her at the ballot box an the throne of grace, do her voting in the state, her praying in the church, and to assume the position of priest at the family alter.
Nothing strengthens the judgment and quickens the concience like individual responsibility. Nothing adds such dignity to character as the recognition of one's self-sovereignity; the right to an equal place, every where conceded; a place earned by personal merit, not an artificial attainment, by inheritance, wealth, family, and position. Seeing, then that the responsibilities of life rests equally on man and woman, that their destiny is the same, they need the same preparation for time and eternity. The talk of sheltering woman from the fierce sterns of life is the sheerest mockery, for they beat on her from every point of the compass, just as they do on man, and with more fatal results, for he has been trained to protect himself, to resist, to conquer. Such are the facts in human experience, the responsibilities of individual. Rich and poor, intelligent and ignorant, wise and foolish, virtuous and vicious, man and woman, it is ever the same, each soul must depend wholly on itself.
Whatever the theories may be of woman's dependence on man, in the supreme moments of her life he can not bear her burdens. Alone she goes to the gates of death to give life to every man that is born into the world. No one can share her fears, on one mitigate her pangs; and if her sorrow is greater than she can bear, alone she passes beyond the gates into the vast unknown.
From the mountain tops of Judea, long ago, a heavenly voice bade His disciples, "Bear ye one another's burdens," but humanity has not yet risen to that point of self-sacrifice, and if ever so willing, how few the burdens are that one soul can bear for another. In the highways of Palestine; in prayer and fasting on the solitary mountain top; in the Garden of Gethsemane; before the judgment seat of Pilate; betrayed by one of His trusted disciples at His last supper; in His agonies on the cross, even Jesus of Nazareth, in these last sad days on earth, felt the awful solitude of self. Deserted by man, in agony he cries, "My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken me?" And so it ever must be in the conflicting scenes of life, on the long weary march, each one walks alone. We may have many friends, love, kindness, sympathy and charity to smooth our pathway in everyday life, but in the tragedies and triumphs of human experience each moral stands alone.
But when all artificial trammels are removed, and women are recognized as individuals, responsible for their own environments, thoroughly educated for all the positions in life they may be called to fill; with all the resources in themselves that liberal though and broad culture can give; guided by their own conscience an judgment; trained to self-protection by a healthy development of the muscular system and skill in the use of weapons of defense, and stimulated to self-support by the knowledge of the business world and the pleasure that pecuniary independence must ever give; when women are trained in this way they will, in a measure, be fitted for those hours of solitude that come alike to all, whether prepared or otherwise. As in our extremity we must depend on ourselves, the dictates of wisdom point of complete individual development.
In talking of education how shallow the argument that each class must be educated for the special work it proposed to do, and all those faculties not needed in this special walk must lie dormant and utterly wither for want of use, when, perhaps, these will be the very faculties needed in life's greatest emergies. Some say, Where is the use of drilling serie in the languages, the Sciences, in law, medicine, theology? As wives, mothers, housekeepers, cooks, they need a different curriculum from boys who are to fill all positions. The chief cooks in our great hotels and ocean steamers are men. In large cities men run the bakies; they make our bread, cake and pies. They manage the laundries; they are now considered our best milliners and dressmakers. Because some men fill these departments of usefulness, shall we regulate the curriculum in Harvard and Yale to their present necessities? If not why this talk in our best colleges of a curriculum for girls who are crowding into the trades and professions; teachers in all our public schools rapidly hiling many lucrative and honorable positions in life? They are showing too, their calmness and courage in the most trying hours of human experience.
You have probably all read in the daily papers of the terrible storm in the Bay of Biscay when a tidal wave such havoc on the shore, wrecking vessels, unroofing houses and carrying destruction everywhere. Among other buildings the woman's prison was demolished. Those who escaped saw men struggling to reach the shore. They promptly by clasping hands made a chain of themselves and pushed out into the sea, again and again, at the risk of their lives until they had brought six men to shore, carried them to a shelter, and did all in their power for their comfort and protection.
What especial school of training could have prepared these women for this sublime moment of their lives. In times like this humanity rises above all college curriculums and recognises Nature as the greatest of all teachers in the hour of danger and death. Women are already the equals of men in the whole of ream of thought, in art, science, literature, and government. With telescope vision they explore the starry firmament, and bring back the history of the planetary world. With chart and compass they pilot ships across the mighty deep, and with skillful finger send electric messages around the globe. In galleries of art the beauties of nature and the virtues of humanity are immortalized by them on their canvas and by their inspired touch dull blocks of marble are transformed into angels of light.
In music they speak again the language of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, and are worthy interpreters of their great thoughts. The poetry and novels of the century are theirs, and they have touched the keynote of reform in religion, politics, and social life. They fill the editor's and professor's chair, and plead at the bar of justice, walk the wards of the hospital, and speak from the pulpit and the platform; such is the type of womanhood that an enlightened public sentiment welcomes today, and such the triumph of the facts of life over the false theories of the past.
Is it, then, consistent to hold the developed woman of this day within the same narrow political limits as the dame with the spinning wheel and knitting needle occupied in the past? No! no! Machinery has taken the labors of woman as well as man on its tireless shoulders; the loom and the spinning wheel are but dreams of the past; the pen, the brush, the easel, the chisel, have taken their places, while the hopes and ambitions of women are essentially changed.
We see reason sufficient in the outer conditions of human being for individual liberty and development, but when we consider the self dependence of every human soul we see the need of courage, judgment, and the exercise of every faculty of mind and body, strengthened and developed by use, in woman as well as man.
Whatever may be said of man's protecting power in ordinary conditions, mid all the terrible disasters by land and sea, in the supreme moments of danger, alone, woman must ever meet the horrors of the situation; the Angel of Death even makes no royal pathway for her. Man's love and sympathy enter only into the sunshine of our lives. In that solemn solitude of self, that links us with the immeasurable and the eternal, each soul lives alone forever. A recent writer says:
I remember once, in crossing the Atlantic, to have gone upon the deck of the ship at midnight, when a dense black cloud enveloped the sky, and the great deep was roaring madly under the lashes of demoniac winds. My feelings was not of danger or fear (which is a base surrender of the immortal soul), but of utter desolation and loneliness; a little speck of life shut in by a tremendous darkness. Again I remember to have climbed the slopes of the Swiss Alps, up beyond the point where vegetation ceases, and the stunted conifers no longer struggle against the unfeeling blasts. Around me lay a huge confusion of rocks, out of which the gigantic ice peaks shot into the measureless blue of the heavens, and again my only feeling was the awful solitude.
And yet, there is a solitude, which each and every one of us has always carried with him, more inaccessible than the ice-cold mountains, more profound than the midnight sea; the solitude of self. Our inner being, which we call ourself, no eye nor touch of man or angel has ever pierced. It is more hidden than the caves of the gnome; the sacred adytum of the oracle; the hidden chamber of eleusinian mystery, for to it only omniscience is permitted to enter.
Such is individual life. Who, I ask you, can take, dare take, on himself the rights, the duties, the responsibilities of another human soul?
Elizabeth Cady Stanton
delivered to the Committee of the Judiciary of the United States Congress
January 18, 1892
Mr. Chairman and gentlemen of the committee: We have been speaking before Committees of the Judiciary for the last twenty years, and we have gone over all the arguments in favor of a sixteenth amendment which are familiar to all you gentlemen; therefore, it will not be necessary that I should repeat them again.
The point I wish plainly to bring before you on this occasion is the individuality of each human soul; our Protestant idea, the right of individual conscience and judgment-our republican idea, individual citizenship. In discussing the rights of woman, we are to consider, first, what belongs to her as an individual, in a world of her own, the arbiter of her own destiny, an imaginary Robinson Crusoe with her woman Friday on a solitary island. Her rights under such circumstances are to use all her faculties for her own safety and happiness.
Secondly, if we consider her as a citizen, as a member of a great nation, she must have the same rights as all other members, according to the fundamental principles of our Government.
Thirdly, viewed as a woman, an equal factor in civilization, her rights and duties are still the same-individual happiness and development.
Fourthly, it is only the incidental relations of life, such as mother, wife, sister, daughter, that may involve some special duties and training. In the usual discussion in regard to woman's sphere, such as men as Herbert Spencer, Frederic Harrison, and Grant Allen uniformly subordinate her rights and duties as an individual, as a citizen, as a woman, to the necessities of these incidental relations, some of which a large class of woman may never assume. In discussing the sphere of man we do not decide his rights as an individual, as a citizen, as a man by his duties as a father, a husband, a brother, or a son, relations some of which he may never fill. Moreover he would be better fitted for these very relations and whatever special work he might choose to do to earn his bread by the complete development of all his faculties as an individual.
Just so with woman. The education that will fit her to discharge the duties in the largest sphere of human usefulness will best fit her for whatever special work she may be compelled to do.
The isolation of every human soul and the necessity of self-dependence must give each individual the right, to choose his own surroundings.
The strongest reason for giving woman all the opportunities for higher education, for the full development of her faculties, forces of mind and body; for giving her the most enlarged freedom of thought and action; a complete emancipation from all forms of bondage, of custom, dependence, superstition; from all the crippling influences of fear, is the solitude and personal responsibility of her own individual life. The strongest reason why we ask for woman a voice in the government under which she lives; in the religion she is asked to believe; equality in social life, where she is the chief factor; a place in the trades and professions, where she may earn her bread, is because of her birthright to self-sovereignty; because, as an individual, she must rely on herself. No matter how much women prefer to lean, to be protected and supported, nor how much men desire to have them do so, they must make the voyage of life alone, and for safety in an emergency they must know something of the laws of navigation. To guide our own craft, we must be captain, pilot, engineer; with chart and compass to stand at the wheel; to match the wind and waves and know when to take in the sail, and to read the signs in the firmament over all. It matters not whether the solitary voyager is man or woman.
Nature having endowed them equally, leaves them to their own skill and judgment in the hour of danger, and, if not equal to the occasion, alike they perish.
The appreciate the importance of fitting every human soul for independent action, think for a moment of the immeasurable solitude of self. We come into the world alone, unlike all who have gone before us; we leave it alone under circumstances peculiar to ourselves. No mortal ever has been, no mortal over will be like the soul just launched on the sea of life. There can never again be just such environments as make up the infancy, youth and manhood of this one. Nature never repeats herself, and the possibilities of one human soul will never be found in another. No one has ever found two blades of ribbon grass alike, and no one will never find two human beings alike. Seeing, then, what must be the infinite diversity in human, character, we can in a measure appreciate the loss to a nation when any large class of the people in uneducated and unrepresented in the government. We ask for the complete development of every individual, first, for his own benefit and happiness. In fitting out an army we give each soldier his own knapsack, arms, powder, his blanket, cup, knife, fork and spoon. We provide alike for all their individual necessities, then each man bears his own burden.
Again we ask complete individual development for the general good; for the consensus of the competent on the whole round of human interest; on all questions of national life, and here each man must bear his share of the general burden. It is sad to see how soon friendless children are left to bear their own burdens before they can analise their feelings; before they can even tell their joys and sorrows, they are thrown on their own resources. The great lesson that nature seems to teach us at all ages is self-dependence, self-protection, self-support. What a touching instance of a child's solitude; of that hunger of heart for love and recognition, in the case of the little girl who helped to dress a christmas tree for the children of the family in which she served. On finding there was no present for herself she slipped away in the darkness and spent the night in an open field sitting on a stone, and when found in the morning was weeping as if her heart would break. No mortal will ever know the thoughts that passed through the mind of that friendless child in the long hours of that cold night, with only the silent stars to keep her company. The mention of her case in the daily papers moved many generous hearts to send her presents, but in the hours of her keenest sufferings she was thrown wholly on herself for consolation.
In youth our most bitter disappointments, our brighest hopes and ambitions are known only to otherwise, even our friendship and love we never fully share with another; there is something of every passion in every situation we conceal. Even so in our triumphs and our defeats.
The successful candidate for Presidency and his opponent each have a solitude peculiarly his own, and good form forbide either in speak of his pleasure or regret. The solitude of the king on his throne and the prisoner in his cell differs in character and degree, but it is solitude nevertheless.
We ask no sympathy from others in the anxiety and agony of a broken friendship or shattered love. When death sunders our nearest ties, alone we sit in the shadows of our affliction. Alike mid the greatest triumphs and darkest tragedies of life we walk alone. On the devine heights of human attainments, eulogized land worshiped as a hero or saint, we stand alone. In ignorance, poverty, and vice, as a pauper or criminal, alone we starve or steal; alone we suffer the sneers and rebuffs of our fellows; alone we are hunted and hounded thro dark courts and alleys, in by-ways and highways; alone we stand in the judgment seat; alone in the prison cell we lament our crimes and misfortunes; alone we expiate them on the gallows. In hours like these we realize the awful solitude of individual life, its pains, its penalties, its responsibilities; hours in which the youngest and most helpless are thrown on their own resources for guidance and consolation. Seeing then that life must ever be a march and a battle, that each soldier must be equipped for his own protection, it is the height of cruelty to rob the individual of a single natural right.
To throw obstacle in the way of a complete education is like putting out the eyes; to deny the rights of property, like cutting off the hands. To deny political equality is to rob the ostracised of all self-respect; of credit in the market place; of recompense in the world of work; of a voice among those who make and administer the law; a choice in the jury before whom they are tried, and in the judge who decides their punishment. Shakespeare's play of Titus and Andronicus contains a terrible satire on woman's position in the nineteenth century-"Rude men" (the play tells us) "seized the king's daughter, cut out her tongue, out off her hands, and then bade her go call for water and wash her hands." What a picture of woman's position. Robbed of her natural rights, handicapped by law and custom at every turn, yet compelled to fight her own battles, and in the emergencies of life to fall back on herself for protection.
The girl of sixteen, thrown on the world to support herself, to make her own place in society, to resist the temptations that surround her and maintain a spotless integrity, must do all this by native force or superior education. She does not acquire this power by being trained to trust others and distrust herself. If she wearies of the struggle, finding it hard work to swim upstream, and allow herself to drift with the current, she will find plenty of company, but not one to share her misery in the hour of her deepest humilation. If she tried to retrieve her position, to conceal the past, her life is hedged about with fears last willing hands should tear the veil from what she fain would hide. Young and friendless, she knows the bitter solitude of self.
How the little courtesies of life on the surface of society, deemed so important from man towards woman, fade into utter insignificance in view of the deeper tragedies in which she must play her part alone, where no human aid is possible.
The youngwife and mother, at the head of some establishment with a kind husband to shield her from the adverse winds of life, with wealth, fortune and position, has a certain harbor of safety, occurs against the ordinary ills of life. But to manage a household, have a deatrable influence in society, keep her friends and the affections of her husband, train her children and servants well, she must have rare common sense, wisdom, diplomacy, and a knowledge of human nature. To do all this she needs the cardinal virtues and the strong points of character that the most succesful stateman possesses.
An uneducated woman, trained to dependence, with no resources in herself must make a failure of any position in life. But society says women do not need a knowledge of the world, the liberal training that experience in public life must give, all the advantages of collegiate education; but when for the lock of all this, the woman's happiness is wrecked, alone she bears her humiliation; and the attitude of the weak and the ignorant in indeed pitiful in the wild chase for the price of life they are ground to powder.
In age, when the pleasures of youth are passed, children grown up, married and gone, the hurry and hustle of life in a measure over, when the hands are weary of active service, when the old armchair and the fireside are the chosen resorts, then men and women alike must fall back on their own resources. If they cannot find companionship in books, if they have no interest in the vital questions of the hour, no interest in watching the consummation of reforms, with which they might have been identified, they soon pass into their dotage. The more fully the faculties of the mind are developed and kept in use, the longer the period of vigor and active interest in all around us continues. If from a lifelong participation in public affairs a woman feels responsible for the laws regulating our system of education, the discipline of our jails and prisons, the sanitary conditions of our private homes, public buildings, and thoroughfares, an interest in commerce, finance, our foreign relations, in any or all of these questions, here solitude will at least be respectable, and she will not be driven to gossip or scandal for entertainment.
The chief reason for opening to every soul the doors to the whole round of human duties an pleasures is the individual development thus attained, the resources thus provided under all circumstances to mitigate the solitude that at times must come to everyone. I once asked Prince Krapotkin, the Russian nihilist, how he endured his long years in prison, deprived of books, pen, ink, and paper. "Ah," he said, "I thought out many questions in which I had a deep interest. In the pursuit of an idea I took no note of time. When tired of solving knotty problems I recited all the beautiful passages in prose or verse I have ever learned. I became acquainted with myself and my own resources. I had a world of my own, a vast empire, that no Russian jailor or Czar could invade." Such is the value of liberal thought and broad culture when shut off from all human companionship, bringing comfort and sunshine within even the four walls of a prison cell.
As women of times share a similar fate, should they not have all the consolation that the most liberal education can give? Their suffering in the prisons of St. Petersburg; in the long, weary marches to Siberia, and in the mines, working side by side with men, surely call for all the self-support that the most exalted sentiments of heroism can give. When suddenly roused at midnight, with the startling cry of "fire! fire!" to find the house over their heads in flames, do women wait for men to point the way to safety? And are the men, equally bewildered and half suffocated with smoke, in a position to more than try to save themselves?
At such times the most timid women have shown a courage and heroism in saving their husbands and children that has surprise everybody. Inasmuch, then, as woman shares equally the joys and sorrows of time and eternity, is it not the height of presumption in man to propose to represent her at the ballot box an the throne of grace, do her voting in the state, her praying in the church, and to assume the position of priest at the family alter.
Nothing strengthens the judgment and quickens the concience like individual responsibility. Nothing adds such dignity to character as the recognition of one's self-sovereignity; the right to an equal place, every where conceded; a place earned by personal merit, not an artificial attainment, by inheritance, wealth, family, and position. Seeing, then that the responsibilities of life rests equally on man and woman, that their destiny is the same, they need the same preparation for time and eternity. The talk of sheltering woman from the fierce sterns of life is the sheerest mockery, for they beat on her from every point of the compass, just as they do on man, and with more fatal results, for he has been trained to protect himself, to resist, to conquer. Such are the facts in human experience, the responsibilities of individual. Rich and poor, intelligent and ignorant, wise and foolish, virtuous and vicious, man and woman, it is ever the same, each soul must depend wholly on itself.
Whatever the theories may be of woman's dependence on man, in the supreme moments of her life he can not bear her burdens. Alone she goes to the gates of death to give life to every man that is born into the world. No one can share her fears, on one mitigate her pangs; and if her sorrow is greater than she can bear, alone she passes beyond the gates into the vast unknown.
From the mountain tops of Judea, long ago, a heavenly voice bade His disciples, "Bear ye one another's burdens," but humanity has not yet risen to that point of self-sacrifice, and if ever so willing, how few the burdens are that one soul can bear for another. In the highways of Palestine; in prayer and fasting on the solitary mountain top; in the Garden of Gethsemane; before the judgment seat of Pilate; betrayed by one of His trusted disciples at His last supper; in His agonies on the cross, even Jesus of Nazareth, in these last sad days on earth, felt the awful solitude of self. Deserted by man, in agony he cries, "My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken me?" And so it ever must be in the conflicting scenes of life, on the long weary march, each one walks alone. We may have many friends, love, kindness, sympathy and charity to smooth our pathway in everyday life, but in the tragedies and triumphs of human experience each moral stands alone.
But when all artificial trammels are removed, and women are recognized as individuals, responsible for their own environments, thoroughly educated for all the positions in life they may be called to fill; with all the resources in themselves that liberal though and broad culture can give; guided by their own conscience an judgment; trained to self-protection by a healthy development of the muscular system and skill in the use of weapons of defense, and stimulated to self-support by the knowledge of the business world and the pleasure that pecuniary independence must ever give; when women are trained in this way they will, in a measure, be fitted for those hours of solitude that come alike to all, whether prepared or otherwise. As in our extremity we must depend on ourselves, the dictates of wisdom point of complete individual development.
In talking of education how shallow the argument that each class must be educated for the special work it proposed to do, and all those faculties not needed in this special walk must lie dormant and utterly wither for want of use, when, perhaps, these will be the very faculties needed in life's greatest emergies. Some say, Where is the use of drilling serie in the languages, the Sciences, in law, medicine, theology? As wives, mothers, housekeepers, cooks, they need a different curriculum from boys who are to fill all positions. The chief cooks in our great hotels and ocean steamers are men. In large cities men run the bakies; they make our bread, cake and pies. They manage the laundries; they are now considered our best milliners and dressmakers. Because some men fill these departments of usefulness, shall we regulate the curriculum in Harvard and Yale to their present necessities? If not why this talk in our best colleges of a curriculum for girls who are crowding into the trades and professions; teachers in all our public schools rapidly hiling many lucrative and honorable positions in life? They are showing too, their calmness and courage in the most trying hours of human experience.
You have probably all read in the daily papers of the terrible storm in the Bay of Biscay when a tidal wave such havoc on the shore, wrecking vessels, unroofing houses and carrying destruction everywhere. Among other buildings the woman's prison was demolished. Those who escaped saw men struggling to reach the shore. They promptly by clasping hands made a chain of themselves and pushed out into the sea, again and again, at the risk of their lives until they had brought six men to shore, carried them to a shelter, and did all in their power for their comfort and protection.
What especial school of training could have prepared these women for this sublime moment of their lives. In times like this humanity rises above all college curriculums and recognises Nature as the greatest of all teachers in the hour of danger and death. Women are already the equals of men in the whole of ream of thought, in art, science, literature, and government. With telescope vision they explore the starry firmament, and bring back the history of the planetary world. With chart and compass they pilot ships across the mighty deep, and with skillful finger send electric messages around the globe. In galleries of art the beauties of nature and the virtues of humanity are immortalized by them on their canvas and by their inspired touch dull blocks of marble are transformed into angels of light.
In music they speak again the language of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, and are worthy interpreters of their great thoughts. The poetry and novels of the century are theirs, and they have touched the keynote of reform in religion, politics, and social life. They fill the editor's and professor's chair, and plead at the bar of justice, walk the wards of the hospital, and speak from the pulpit and the platform; such is the type of womanhood that an enlightened public sentiment welcomes today, and such the triumph of the facts of life over the false theories of the past.
Is it, then, consistent to hold the developed woman of this day within the same narrow political limits as the dame with the spinning wheel and knitting needle occupied in the past? No! no! Machinery has taken the labors of woman as well as man on its tireless shoulders; the loom and the spinning wheel are but dreams of the past; the pen, the brush, the easel, the chisel, have taken their places, while the hopes and ambitions of women are essentially changed.
We see reason sufficient in the outer conditions of human being for individual liberty and development, but when we consider the self dependence of every human soul we see the need of courage, judgment, and the exercise of every faculty of mind and body, strengthened and developed by use, in woman as well as man.
Whatever may be said of man's protecting power in ordinary conditions, mid all the terrible disasters by land and sea, in the supreme moments of danger, alone, woman must ever meet the horrors of the situation; the Angel of Death even makes no royal pathway for her. Man's love and sympathy enter only into the sunshine of our lives. In that solemn solitude of self, that links us with the immeasurable and the eternal, each soul lives alone forever. A recent writer says:
I remember once, in crossing the Atlantic, to have gone upon the deck of the ship at midnight, when a dense black cloud enveloped the sky, and the great deep was roaring madly under the lashes of demoniac winds. My feelings was not of danger or fear (which is a base surrender of the immortal soul), but of utter desolation and loneliness; a little speck of life shut in by a tremendous darkness. Again I remember to have climbed the slopes of the Swiss Alps, up beyond the point where vegetation ceases, and the stunted conifers no longer struggle against the unfeeling blasts. Around me lay a huge confusion of rocks, out of which the gigantic ice peaks shot into the measureless blue of the heavens, and again my only feeling was the awful solitude.
And yet, there is a solitude, which each and every one of us has always carried with him, more inaccessible than the ice-cold mountains, more profound than the midnight sea; the solitude of self. Our inner being, which we call ourself, no eye nor touch of man or angel has ever pierced. It is more hidden than the caves of the gnome; the sacred adytum of the oracle; the hidden chamber of eleusinian mystery, for to it only omniscience is permitted to enter.
Such is individual life. Who, I ask you, can take, dare take, on himself the rights, the duties, the responsibilities of another human soul?
Thursday, July 7, 2011
poor decisions
i followed a post about my brain coming back with a post including naked photos (which ive since deleted) and a post with a new drink recipe (which i stand by, because its delicious).
apparently i spoke too soon about my brain turning back on. it is clearly still off.
apparently i spoke too soon about my brain turning back on. it is clearly still off.
drink recipe: the 5am Summer CockTail
step one: 2 parts (vodka of choice, i used stoli) blueberry, i part limoncello, stir
step two: fill a highall glass with ice, gently stir* in stoli/limoncello mixture (DO NOT SHAKE*), fill to top w lemon seltzer or champagne
step three: consume as many as possible before forcibly removed from the bar(beque)
*shaking bruises the liquor, compromising taste, and chips the ice, watering down your drink. stirring best preserves the integrity of the liquor / keeps that shit strong!
step two: fill a highall glass with ice, gently stir* in stoli/limoncello mixture (DO NOT SHAKE*), fill to top w lemon seltzer or champagne
step three: consume as many as possible before forcibly removed from the bar(beque)
*shaking bruises the liquor, compromising taste, and chips the ice, watering down your drink. stirring best preserves the integrity of the liquor / keeps that shit strong!
Nelson's Nightmares
ive shared before that nelson is an avid dreamer, and it seems a lot of those dreams are nightmares. i can tell because he not just kicks, but fully runs with all four legs (which, ive measured, are exactly as long as mine. when standing next to each other our hip bones are at exactly the same height), the strength of which is not to be underestimated. also - while he's having one of his nightmares is the only time i have ever heard him bark. he has never had a reason to bark while awake, but apparently some shit must go down on the backs of his eyelids because it's the one time he's revealed his voice to me (it's i guess as deep as you'd expect, but its bass surprised me anyway).
regardless, just now he must have been having a hell of a dream, because his legs got to running so forcefully he kicked himself into the gap between the mattress and the bedframe (yes, my parents' house is so luxe that their beds have not only boxsprings, raising the mattresses from the floor, but wrought-iron bedframes at the both the head and foot) and of course he woke up, trapped down there, freaking out. so i lifted him back onto the bed (not easy. recap. nelson: 150 - 160lb dog. alex: 95-100 lb girl) and spooned him until he calmed down.
sidenote: in my life, i am ALWAYS the little spoon. i should be the little spoon in this sitch, based on size alone, but he prefers that i am the big spoon, and im open to new experiences, so i cuddled him as the big spoon for awhile and he seems to be back to a semi-peaceful sleep.
thank god.
regardless, just now he must have been having a hell of a dream, because his legs got to running so forcefully he kicked himself into the gap between the mattress and the bedframe (yes, my parents' house is so luxe that their beds have not only boxsprings, raising the mattresses from the floor, but wrought-iron bedframes at the both the head and foot) and of course he woke up, trapped down there, freaking out. so i lifted him back onto the bed (not easy. recap. nelson: 150 - 160lb dog. alex: 95-100 lb girl) and spooned him until he calmed down.
sidenote: in my life, i am ALWAYS the little spoon. i should be the little spoon in this sitch, based on size alone, but he prefers that i am the big spoon, and im open to new experiences, so i cuddled him as the big spoon for awhile and he seems to be back to a semi-peaceful sleep.
thank god.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
my brain is coming back.
one of the reasons ive been staying so long w my parents before starting my road trip is that my father, being a legal genius and all, figured out how to make the money i spend on gas during my trip tax deductible. i wont go into the details, but the centerpiece of this plan is that i maintain a weekly newsletter for his clients while im traveling.
the obstacle here is that he works in finance, which is a world ive been purposefully ignorant of my entire life. saying that "i dont understand the economy" is like, a MASSIVE understatement. i mean, i never had a job until about 6 months ago, and its not like any job that pays $600 for four hours of work could've given me a reasonable understanding of the value of a dollar. so ive spent the last couple weeks learning what the economy is, and how banks work, and what mortgages are, and how credit works, and what the federal reserve does - ive learned more in these sessions with my dad than i learned in my last three semesters at columbia.
the weird thing is that im finding it all very interesting - even exciting. i doubt its because im on fire for finance. its just using my brain this way again, absorbing information, drawing conclusions - learning. i love to learn. its how i got into columbia in the first place.
i cant believe i got so distracted that i forgot how much i love to learn!
so ive been at it all day, exploring the websites of federal financial regulatory agencies, taking notes, formatting what a weekly newsletter of new regulations would look like, too much to even talk about here.
the point is, i feel like ive reactivated a whole section of my brain that had been relegated to overanalyzing social interaction, or analyzing myself and my thoughts and motives, or other shit far beneath its capacity. i forgot that im smart! can you imagine? and now neurons are firing that have laid dormant for far too long.
it is SO exciting to be learning again.
and, by the time im ready to start writing this newsletter, ill have accumulated a whole new body of knowledge! shit i knew nothing about a month ago, ill be able to talk about with expertise. it really is exhilarating.
the obstacle here is that he works in finance, which is a world ive been purposefully ignorant of my entire life. saying that "i dont understand the economy" is like, a MASSIVE understatement. i mean, i never had a job until about 6 months ago, and its not like any job that pays $600 for four hours of work could've given me a reasonable understanding of the value of a dollar. so ive spent the last couple weeks learning what the economy is, and how banks work, and what mortgages are, and how credit works, and what the federal reserve does - ive learned more in these sessions with my dad than i learned in my last three semesters at columbia.
the weird thing is that im finding it all very interesting - even exciting. i doubt its because im on fire for finance. its just using my brain this way again, absorbing information, drawing conclusions - learning. i love to learn. its how i got into columbia in the first place.
i cant believe i got so distracted that i forgot how much i love to learn!
so ive been at it all day, exploring the websites of federal financial regulatory agencies, taking notes, formatting what a weekly newsletter of new regulations would look like, too much to even talk about here.
the point is, i feel like ive reactivated a whole section of my brain that had been relegated to overanalyzing social interaction, or analyzing myself and my thoughts and motives, or other shit far beneath its capacity. i forgot that im smart! can you imagine? and now neurons are firing that have laid dormant for far too long.
it is SO exciting to be learning again.
and, by the time im ready to start writing this newsletter, ill have accumulated a whole new body of knowledge! shit i knew nothing about a month ago, ill be able to talk about with expertise. it really is exhilarating.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
on being a muse
Muse
[myooz]
–noun
1.Classical Mythology .
a. any of a number of sister goddesses, originally given as Aoede (song), Melete (meditation), and Mneme (memory), but latterly and more commonly as the nine daughters of zeus and Mnemosyne who presided over various arts: Calliope (epic poetry), Clio (history), Erato (lyric poetry), Euterpe (music), Melpomene (tragedy), Polyhymnia (religious music), Terpsichore (dance), Thalia (comedy), and Urania (astronomy); identified by the Romans with the Camenae.
b. any goddess presiding over a particular art.
2. ( sometimes lowercase ) the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like.
3. ( lowercase ) the genius or powers characteristic of a poet.
Muse 2 (mjuːz)
— noun
a goddess that inspires a creative artist, esp a poet
Word Origin & History
muse
late 14c., protectors of the arts, from L. Musa , from Gk. Mousa , lit. "muse, music, song,
ive been called a muse by many artists, which is a signnificant accomplishment for me. in my childhood i never wanted to be the guy standing up to the mic, i wanted to be the girl waiting for him on the side of the stage. and ive done that. ive inspired photographers, musicians, writers, directors - i was even painted once. a few of my closest friends are muses too, and we've been talking lately about what it really means.
it means to make your entire life a performance art piece, and then allow that performance, your own creative energy, to be absorbed by 'real artists.' its exhilarating, every time you hear a song you know was written just about you played, especially to see it played live - its a feeling that cant be described. it makes it worth it when you've been sucked dry, when you have no more creative energy left, when youre broke and hungry and couch-surfing while the artists who sing your life stories get paid (and paid. and paid.).
its still worth it, because for four years i was the girl waiting for my man at the side of the stage, and if i had anything left in me to give id still be in new york, living the life that somebody else will sing about or write about.
but for now i have to regrow my Self, because i am so empty now. they took everything there was to take, and i let them. i didnt think id become disposable. but like it says on the hypodermics that were once a part of my daily life, "use just once and destroy." they did.
this is why im spending all my time alone now. i need to find my creative voice again, but im too old to be a muse again, so this time ill have to inspire myself. its time to tell my own stories.
[myooz]
–noun
1.Classical Mythology .
a. any of a number of sister goddesses, originally given as Aoede (song), Melete (meditation), and Mneme (memory), but latterly and more commonly as the nine daughters of zeus and Mnemosyne who presided over various arts: Calliope (epic poetry), Clio (history), Erato (lyric poetry), Euterpe (music), Melpomene (tragedy), Polyhymnia (religious music), Terpsichore (dance), Thalia (comedy), and Urania (astronomy); identified by the Romans with the Camenae.
b. any goddess presiding over a particular art.
2. ( sometimes lowercase ) the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like.
3. ( lowercase ) the genius or powers characteristic of a poet.
Muse 2 (mjuːz)
— noun
a goddess that inspires a creative artist, esp a poet
Word Origin & History
muse
late 14c., protectors of the arts, from L. Musa , from Gk. Mousa , lit. "muse, music, song,
ive been called a muse by many artists, which is a signnificant accomplishment for me. in my childhood i never wanted to be the guy standing up to the mic, i wanted to be the girl waiting for him on the side of the stage. and ive done that. ive inspired photographers, musicians, writers, directors - i was even painted once. a few of my closest friends are muses too, and we've been talking lately about what it really means.
it means to make your entire life a performance art piece, and then allow that performance, your own creative energy, to be absorbed by 'real artists.' its exhilarating, every time you hear a song you know was written just about you played, especially to see it played live - its a feeling that cant be described. it makes it worth it when you've been sucked dry, when you have no more creative energy left, when youre broke and hungry and couch-surfing while the artists who sing your life stories get paid (and paid. and paid.).
its still worth it, because for four years i was the girl waiting for my man at the side of the stage, and if i had anything left in me to give id still be in new york, living the life that somebody else will sing about or write about.
but for now i have to regrow my Self, because i am so empty now. they took everything there was to take, and i let them. i didnt think id become disposable. but like it says on the hypodermics that were once a part of my daily life, "use just once and destroy." they did.
this is why im spending all my time alone now. i need to find my creative voice again, but im too old to be a muse again, so this time ill have to inspire myself. its time to tell my own stories.
anger
a poem.
-why am i angry
--i cant get a boy to talk to me
-what is anger
--anger is fear
----why am i afraid of losing communication with him
-----communication is all we have
-------without it he will not be in my life at all
-----he may be orchestrating this loss of communication
------he doesnt care enough to talk to me
------he doesnt want to talk to me
-----i value his advice
------losing it would make me feel lost
-----i cant know his truth without talking to him
------i hate to be lied to
------he must be lying about something
-maybe he's just busy
--am i hysterical girl
---i know im not mentally well
----proof: i take 5 different psychiatric medications daily
--i need to relax
---ive heard good things about yoga
-why am i angry
--i cant get a boy to talk to me
-what is anger
--anger is fear
----why am i afraid of losing communication with him
-----communication is all we have
-------without it he will not be in my life at all
-----he may be orchestrating this loss of communication
------he doesnt care enough to talk to me
------he doesnt want to talk to me
-----i value his advice
------losing it would make me feel lost
-----i cant know his truth without talking to him
------i hate to be lied to
------he must be lying about something
-maybe he's just busy
--am i hysterical girl
---i know im not mentally well
----proof: i take 5 different psychiatric medications daily
--i need to relax
---ive heard good things about yoga
links im reading (updated regularly)
http://www.looo.ch/global
http://www.good.is/
http://www.designtaxi.com/
http://www.thefix.com/
http://www.hypem.com
http://www.dazeddigital.com/
http://www.theatlantic.com
http://www.viceland.com
http://www.popsci.com
http://www.foundmagazine.com
http://www.unseennyc.com/
http://www.good.is/
http://www.designtaxi.com/
http://www.thefix.com/
http://www.hypem.com
http://www.dazeddigital.com/
http://www.theatlantic.com
http://www.viceland.com
http://www.popsci.com
http://www.foundmagazine.com
http://www.unseennyc.com/
Monday, July 4, 2011
thoughts
this is a copy-and-paste from an earlier blog post (Nirvana-In Utero, from April '11), explaining why my misuse of punctuation is a conscious choice:
"you know how old people always talk about how the death of western civilization will be caused by people our age completely abandoning grammar and spelling bc we grew up 'texting' (or worse: 'sexting' )? i think they dont realize that when we actually learned to type we were too little for our fingers to reach all the punctuation keys on the side, so now when we need to type quickly we drop them again.
Isnt it cute how old people think western civilization isnt dead yet? doesn't that make you wanna squeeze their cheeks and say 'its ok gwanma' in baby-talk?"
"you know how old people always talk about how the death of western civilization will be caused by people our age completely abandoning grammar and spelling bc we grew up 'texting' (or worse: 'sexting' )? i think they dont realize that when we actually learned to type we were too little for our fingers to reach all the punctuation keys on the side, so now when we need to type quickly we drop them again.
Isnt it cute how old people think western civilization isnt dead yet? doesn't that make you wanna squeeze their cheeks and say 'its ok gwanma' in baby-talk?"
Sunday, July 3, 2011
shit i did yesterday
i did a lot of lying around, enjoying the emptiness and the silence and the space.
i also got a pedicure, during which i flipped through this months vogue (i disagree with gucci about nail trends. square tips are out, sharp pointed tips are whats next) and found an article about some overly wealthy woman doing an accessory collection for topshop. i was stunned to see an almost exact replica of a bracelet my aunt liz gave me while i was in columbus that once belonged to my great grandmother gogo (a NY socialite in the 20s! super cool woman. did awesome shit like dancing in the fountain in front of the plaza hotel and stealing a fruit truck for a joy ride - ill collect stories about her for her own post).
on the left is the bracelet i inherited, on the right is the picture in vogue of the one available at topshop. im still laughing about this.
im worried that nelson is getting too used to the good life we're living while we're staying with my parents (there is so much land. so much.) and will be pissed when we move into a car and live in it for 6 - 8 months.
also took some picture of the sunset while i was driving home. they dont come close to showing how incredible it actually was - the sky was on fire - but heres the best one anyway
and this just needs to be posted for its own fucking rad-ness. open it up large enough to read it through.
keep living.
i also got a pedicure, during which i flipped through this months vogue (i disagree with gucci about nail trends. square tips are out, sharp pointed tips are whats next) and found an article about some overly wealthy woman doing an accessory collection for topshop. i was stunned to see an almost exact replica of a bracelet my aunt liz gave me while i was in columbus that once belonged to my great grandmother gogo (a NY socialite in the 20s! super cool woman. did awesome shit like dancing in the fountain in front of the plaza hotel and stealing a fruit truck for a joy ride - ill collect stories about her for her own post).
im worried that nelson is getting too used to the good life we're living while we're staying with my parents (there is so much land. so much.) and will be pissed when we move into a car and live in it for 6 - 8 months.
also took some picture of the sunset while i was driving home. they dont come close to showing how incredible it actually was - the sky was on fire - but heres the best one anyway
and this just needs to be posted for its own fucking rad-ness. open it up large enough to read it through.
keep living.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
