excerpt, email correspondence:

"anyway, still kinda feelin cracked out so i'm gonna go....

okay no wait, one quick story real fast - you will totally laugh. so i'm at the grocery store today by my house and i get some deli meat cut at the deli. the guy tells me the total and then asks me to pay so i pay although i think its weird that i have to pay at the deli. so i walk away and go further into the store and then i decide to put the meat in my bag since i already paid and i dont want to get charged twice for it. i do make sure to put the receipt with it in the bag. so then later i am looking at the entenmann's doughnuts wistfully when this kinda creepy black guy comes up to me and kind of taps me and is all like, come with me. and i'm all, what? and he's like, come with me. and i'm like, why???? (the guy at the deli was hitting on me, and even though he was nice i was kinda irritated at guys at the moment.) and he's like, come with me, and i'm like, nooooo, you tell me why first, creepy random dude. and then he's like, don't embarrass yourself...and i got a blank look on my face... and he's like, i saw what you put in your bag! keep in mind, he is totally in dirty street clothes and not official looking at all. so i'm like, i paid for it already, the receipt is in there, see! and he comes all over and is like, what else you got in that bag? and starts looking in, all accusing like. (too bad a giant tampon wasnt right on top, you know?) and i'm like, uh, my drink from lunch...etc, etc. so then he kinda drops the shit and is like, don't put that stuff in your bag, okay? like i was so crazy for putting something i paid for in my bag. and i'm like, okay, fine, no worries, dude! shit. and all i could think after is that if the man saw me put the meat in my bag, he clearly must have seen me PAY FOR THE MEAT 45 seconds before that. anyway, it just cracked me up to be busted for shoplifting without even stealing anything. after all that, i did buy myself some damn doughnuts!!!!"

when the fed ex guy pities you.... that's when it's confirmed: you work like a dog. or a japanese beaver. or a poor grad student. (you pick which one you like best.)

however: my job is almost entirely unsupervised, is at times creative, and is remotely fascinating. i can steal soy sauce and i have first dibs on all of the expired vitamins one could dream of (they're still perfectly fine for 6 months, don't worry.)

once in a while, i learn something really cool that i internalize, that i tuck away into that big file folder in my brain called "tools for saving western civilization". even more frequently, i help someone feel better. someone in pain. someone who's felt lost and ignored and overlooked. and that feels really, really good...

...even though i would much, much rather be outside right now!

an addendum, not a correction

i still mostly feel like shit - for of course, there is always the problem of other people. when self-contained, thinking of myself, i am fine... but it stops there. a strange border fence. no one swimming through the ocean or river, risking their life to cross it.

i am so worried, i am very concerned for you.

even more perfect weather tonight - warm air, cool breeze, damp sky and intermittent raindrops. reminded me, almost exactly, of home. of the ocean. of the orange glow of sodium arc lights in the fog. of the delicious nervousness of anticipation. i can't say that i miss home, exactly, but i miss the feeling of it very much indeed. and that is exactly what can never come again.

walked past a memorial day party on my way home, in the courtyard of one of the bushwick houses. balloons decorating the iron fence, plastic chairs, red plastic cups, laughter. it made me indescribably sad in the darkness.

nowhere to call home but myself.

difficult weekend, for more reasons than one.

pushed a lot of heavy things alone through the projects again. was smiling though... absolutely magnificent weather. the pjs may have iron bars cunningly shaped into curtains on all of the first-floor windows, but at least they are surrounded by lots of gorgeous old trees. another gorgeous thing - my own tenacity. always brings a serene smile to my face, after the tears have dried. wouldn't (and can't) buy it at a cheaper price, however. good to be out and about on the street, to have a few people greeting me as i pass. feels good, feels right.

first jog of the season as well - 2 miles total, one mile straight through. trying to get back on the ol' "straight and narrow" as i call it. nowhere near as out of shape as i imagined i was. park was lovely, but it's always hard to appreciate scenic beauty when you're desperately focusing on not dying. no, it really wasn't that bad at all. cracks me up that i have to put my keys in my sports bra as my running shorts have no pockets, and the cagey look around that i gave before reaching in and pulling them out when i got to my stoop was truly hilarious.

also had my first "real" photoshoot as a model... i hesitate to say real only because it was for a friend's personal project, for the modelling i did was very real. and difficult! and made even more so by the fact that we were shooting outdoors on a busy streetcorner from 12-2 am on a friday night in bushwick. in true top model fashion i was wrestling with the elements, trying to ignore passers-by (including one douche who jumped in the shot with me) and wearing shoes that were two sizes too big... but i worked it out, natch! shots look super. don't want to post them yet 'til i get permission from my girl but i'll see what i can do. (copyright law is totally fucked in america, fyi.)

i lept out into the darkness - and someone caught me, for once. my worst fears have come true - and that's not even the fucked up part... the fucked up part is that it isn't so bad, it's bad but not terrible, not awful at all. i am skilled, an adept at lying to others but one thing i could never master was lying to myself... for the most part. but these fears of mine, these tired, moldy fears, well - now that they're here, they're almost nothing, nothing at all... each passing day my will, my resolve, my being, my breath crumbles them. and as hard as it seems, when i have a bad hour or two or three, i can look out over the horizon now and laugh, laugh a little at how i thought i was holding them at bay when they had already eaten my heart out. laugh at how i dreaded them for so long while living among them. and now, on the other side, i purge the worms and move on. i have my moments, certanly, my anguish is always a precious ruby i wear in my breast. however - however, it's really okay. i'm here. i'm alive, i'm making it. i'm not running away, i'm running towards.... what? myself, i suppose.

let the sun come in so the shadows are cast.

(of course, there is still the problem of other people.)

why i listen to music alone

i'm in no fit state/ i'm in no fit shape/



acting hard's been tough/




we tried but we didn't have long/ we tried but we don't belong/




say goodbye to everything, nothing/

well, you learn something new every day

the other night i had a sex dream involving alison goldfrapp. this was surprising to me for two reasons:

1. i don't usually have a lot of sex dreams involving actual physical play. i'm more prone to "emotional" sex dreams where the current object cathected by my libidinal energy is doing shit like holding my hand, looking me in the eye or assuring me that i was always the one for them. i've had these about both men and women. but this was my first actual sex dream involving a woman. and even though two women and one man were trying to "get down" with me, i was only interested in alison. even more curious, even after we kissed extensively, i was still in complete turmoil about whether she liked me or not. (okay, after i typed that out it became a little less curious to me why i was in such turmoil. ha.)

2. also interesting was the fact that she was wearing the fucking harlequin jumpsuit she's adopted for all of the "seventh tree" promo shoots. i hate jumpsuits and i hate harlequin motifs. now, i'm not phobic about clowns or anything but i don't really "get" them, they make me uncomfortable, primarily because i've never found one funny. ever. and a harlequin may be the classy, frenched-up version of the american "sad hobo clown" in better makeup and silkier duds (sidenote: TERRIFYING) but a clown it remains, none the less. so even when i saw the hotness that is alison goldfrapp cavorting around in the woods wearing a harlequin jumpsuit i was supremely sceptical.

yet, in my dream, i learned something interesting about jumpsuits. after alison walked off from me (in the dream) to do her show, i followed her, forlorn and confused. i wandered up to her, doing my best not to appear so obviously fragile, and said something like,

"alison - do you really like me? i mean... do you...?"

she didn't answer. instead, she unbuttoned the front of her jumpsuit entirely, to show me that she wasn't wearing anything at all underneath... nothing at all. hmmm.... maybe there is something to the jumpsuit. hm hm hmmmm. i guess this is my window into what it must be like to have a penis - imagining all of the fun ways women can be naked under their clothes. (did you know that everyone is naked under their clothes? fascinating.) *

* i've got a pretty fucking good handle on what this dream is about, don't think i'm avoiding it. i'm just trying to focus on the positives, here.

i know i know i know i know i know i know i know i know

foucault on the 2/3 train
man crying, man crying out
swaying his head from side to side,
swaying his torso up and down,
moaning moaning moaning.
punctuated by cordial greetings and thanks.
"hey brother!"
he calls to the black man across the bench.
"hey brother!"
there is a giant deadness around him
a giant dead space of emptiness on the bench
a giant dead space of silence on the train
he is the only thing alive.
he is the only thing that "merely is."
"thank you!" he yells to someone. "thank you!" he yells,
i wonder why, and what it was for.
once a hobo thanked me on the J train,
thanked me for smiling at him. he always tells me
i have beautiful eyes each time he sees me,
but this time he thanked me for smiling.
(not cringing, presumably.)

the man is still moaning in agony,
hands clasped around his face. some ignore him easily.
others search around for
the eyes of the other passengers to
silently speak. like the old lady across from me,
she is upset. she wants to look me in the eye with a look that says,
"how terrible. how terrible that someone should be like that.
take him away, take him away. we are not like that - but we could be, i suppose,
so take him away! take him away!"

i half smile in return. i have, of course, been pursuing my own thoughts.
i am in anguish. i don't know what to do, what to say.
even how to be. my own fear clouds me. i am upset.

a cute boy i notice each day
has sat down beside me. i
wonder if he knows it is me he is
sitting by. i have caught him looking at me a few times,
but never very seriously. we are close. the train lurches.
i press my arm into his. we are touching. i begin to pretend that he is mine.
he has "a people's history of the world" on his lap;
foucault, of course, is on mine. our arms still pressed together, i wonder what he is thinking.
nothing, presumably. his eyes are closed.
a part of me opens, quietly, deep inside,
opens for business, ripens for the taking. full of yearning,
i focus on our touching arms.

i do not really want him;
not sure if i really want anybody but
i want to be wanted and
want to feel want. (there is one
that i perhaps feel real want for, but
too little, too late, the die has been cast, the poison drank. like socrates, i suppose, i will not turn away from
my fate.)

i don't think he is noticing man in anguish. i am sure he isn't
noticing me. i had thought a moment before about foucault,
thought about young michel, much like me
wanting to want anything but void,
loneliness, anguish,
i think of him, young, serious, like me,
tearing up at the man's anguish,
tearing at it's truth, jealous.
i begin to feel better. i begin to feel for the man,
really, i begin to sense him as a real being then,
not just an object that causes me distress. my guilt
disappears in my flickering jealousy, my serious empathy.

i too long to scream out and wail,
i wish to thank those around me, call out to them
in distress, i curse
the invisible walls between these two touching arms,
and the nothing that they signify. how can two touching arms never
mean anything at all? should it not signify something,
however slight, when two beings are touching, when
one hears the cry of someone in anguish? i see young michel
on the bench beside the man (funny, he's bald, can't picture him any other way)
and then he says to me,
"i understand, (x). i understand you."

this meaning means something, not that
this one and not that, this person's cry is important and
this one's is not. shut yourself off to that voice, that touch, but
turn yourself on for...what?

i get off at 14th street
and hop on the L. i play with my hair in the reflection on the window.
i toy with a few strands of my messy bangs, laughing to myself about what
men must think of a woman doing her hair in
'the messy look' because to them it looks so careless, so free
and yet i am obsessing over what amounts to several strands because
they must go this way and not that, i simply feel
that they must go this way and not that. these strands here, not those and not those,
only these, these matter and they must go this way. how? why?

*****

there is no excuse for your reluctance. to know your own heart but not to speak it, not to act on it? this is sin. this is despicable. now, what to say to mine? to my heart?
"i know i know i know i know i know i know i know...."