evens and beginnings

last night i was walking down 59th street with friend after purchasing two 40s and a pack of swisher sweets at the deli (you can take the girls out of brooklyn, but...)

i interestingly noted that thus far on our walk not one but two expensive cars had pulled over onto the shoulder and gestured and honked at us. friend was talking, friend didn't notice. we kept walking. i didn't say anything, but thought to myself, "damn! and here we are, mere blocks from the UN. crazy."

we both saw her at the same time - loitering in the doorway, neither hunched nor brazen, full of a quiet confidence. she had mounds of fake blonde hair, a perfect spray-on tan, and (of course) high, spiked heels. her dress was tight, but not skin-tight; the pale lavender lame clung to her curves and had cutouts in all of the right places. i was immediately struck by how genuinely pretty she was - her round, eastern european face had a simplicity about it, a fresh youthfulness, even under her makeup. and her expression sticks with me, even now: she did not look ashamed, she did not look reticent. instead, she looked exactly like what she probably actually was - a young girl, aware of her own mind, slightly bored, calmly waiting for her next job. her john. her trick. (i wonder what she calls them in her own mind?)

a few beats past her we exploded into whispers.

"i wanted to ask her how she was, how her night was going!"
"i know, wow, i wish we could talk to her!"

and why couldn't we? after all, as my favourite lyric goes, "the space between people and things is empty." this is true. but, i am also a foucauldian. this means - this means what? what is the space between objects filled with, and who dictates it? (exactly. the space is filled with this question, and in each interaction we decide the answer for ourselves. of course, a lot of different things tell us what to think).

subjectivization ain't easy, but it's necessary (?)

...depends, of course, on who you ask. psychoanalysis says yes! but how would one define "necessary?"

i've been doing more art lately. i thought, somehow, that picking up pencil and paper would school me in the basics, ease me back in slowly, help me feel less like... like this image i keep getting in my mind. i'm a philosopher, sure, but i've cut off my left arm. it's on the floor, lifeless. i didn't want to do it, but it seemed necessary (there's that word again!). and i'm looking at it. i want to pick it up, graft it back on to me, however crudely, but i seem to know that that is impossible.

and doing more art made me feel, at first, oddly enough, like a torso with no arms, looking down at all of these starts and beginnings (and arms) on the ground. and i kinda got freaked out about it, after that. but now the arms are back on, and they work, although it still hurts excruciatingly at times. i tell myself to think about it like jogging, that it always sucks ass in the beginning. (sucks ass, i'm so nice to myself.) okay - what am i talking about? and why i am blogging about it? both are excellent questions.



those guys that honked at us looked like such douche bags. i hope she's ok, that her night was okay. what else can i do, say?




serious friend is coming to town this week, and i'm busy working out the itinerary. this is the sort of thing one blogs about, i suppose, where one plans on taking good friends who come a-visiting the five boroughs. i will definitely say that the places one thinks of while planning this sort of thing is quite illustrative of the relationship one has with this fair city. interestingly i sense a real aspect of escapism inherent in all of my choices - a picnic in the woods of central park, a walking tour of my neighborhood, fetish clothing shopping in the village, coney island, a between-the-wars-themed costume party in park slope, my favourite vietnamese restaurant, my vintage shopping trail, drinking on the staten island ferry, etc.

but i suppose that is the magic of the city - that one can escape it while never leaving it.

hmmm. i like that. i like that.

i think i'll end on that note.

odds and ends

"you need to play in the wound, trace and finger its contours, not avoid it; it is only when you can laugh at it that you may accept it, accept it and internalize it and make it over anew."

"the road of language runs through me. i follow it for a space, but it always goes on without me."

"and i think
in the garden store
about zyklon B
the evil around us everyday
the invisible blood on our hands, our clothes.
who made my clothes?
who made me?
i don't know,
i don't know anymore."

"philosophers want to figure things out, reduce, define, end. put a period down. i find myself on the side of the semi-colon, semi- (something), saying the same thing over and over, taking such pleasure in iterating the iterability of each word, each syllable, each situation, each fear.

fear of reduction.
fear of alienation.
fear of meaninglessness
becoming meaning.

meaning is a fear of non-meaning that my semicolon and i know well. each time we leave our mark we fade farther from the truth, approximating truth. the truth of truth for zeno and i, and the semicolon, is: we fear. we fear the end because, what then?"

"why can't life triumph?
just wondering...
any particular reason why?"

overheard in park slope

1. who's that on your shirt?

2. oh, philip glass... you know, the composer..?

1. oh yeah! i know a great philip glass joke.

2. you have to tell it to me!!!

1. okay: knock knock...

2. who's there?

1. knock knock...

2. who's there...?

1. knock knock!

2. ... who's there?

1. PHILIP GLASS!!!

2. HA! i love it!!!!

"there's no other place like it," francie said.
"like what?"
"brooklyn. it's a magic city and it isn't real."
"it's just like any other place."
"it isn't! i go to new york everyday and new york's not the same. i went to bayonne once to see a girl from the office who was home, sick. and bayonne isn't the same. it's mysterious here in brooklyn. it's like - yes - a dream. the houses and the streets don't seem real. neither do the people."
"they're real enough - the way they fight and holler at each other and the way they're poor, and dirty, too."
"but it's like a dream of people being poor and fighting. they don't really feel these things. it's like it's all happening in a dream."
"brooklyn is no different than any other place," said neeley firmly. "it's only your imagination that makes it different. but that's all right," he added magnanimously, "as long as it makes you feel so happy."
neeley! so much like mama, so much like papa; the best of each in neeley. she loved her brother. she wanted to put her arms around him and kiss him. but he was like mama. he hated people to be demonstrative. if she tried to kiss him, he'd get mad and push her away. so, she held out her hand instead.
"happy new year, neeley."
"the same to you."
they shook hands solemnly.

in which, as my bosses are out of town, i discuss several truly pressing matters, or: how to succeed in new york city without really doing laundry

does anyone know where a gal can buy gingerbread men in this god-forsaken city? it is of the utmost importance that i find some before 7pm this evening. i can't make any from scratch as i have to work all day... and i am also too poor to buy all of the ingredients. (le sigh.)
it is no secret that i have a GIGANTIC sweet tooth and that i take the pursuit of such items very seriously... "very seriously" as in the fact that i once walked a mile or so into another borough in a snowstorm to find hats, candles and cupcakes for friend's birthday (in my mind, it just ain't your birthday without the requisite cake and candle ceremony) and "very seriously" in that i have "desserts" listed right next to "a new economy of bodies and pleasures" under "interests" on my facebook page. (and if that don't make it serious, i don't know what the fuck does.)

isn't it interesting how an unabashed passion takes away a bit of your perspectivity? contrast this with the assumption we tend to casually make that someone with a vested interest in something must "know it" the best. i was pondering this the other day while discussing a new dessert i had tried with friend.

as i endeavoured to transcribe my experience of the dessert's complex tastiness into language, i was forced to admit at the end of my review that however delish said dominican cake was, the simple truth was that "i'd never really met a cake i didn't like."

now, does my taste for cake make me an expert on cakes across the board? or does it make my opinion nearly valueless, as odds are good that with my love of cakery i'll find something redeemable in even the most terrible of gateaux? once could perhaps argue that it would really be my experiences with such a vast amount of cakes that would make me a cake-ologist worthy of consultation and not my extreme love for them (which would be exactly the kind of thing that would fall into that grand category known as "observer bias" and therefore be immediately suspect.)

however, as it is our "extreme love" or, more loosely, our intentionality (which some [me!] would argue is nearly synonymous with desire ) that drives one to do such things as eat delicious squares of fluffy goodness lovingly brought over by one's neighbours after their little son's birthday party, how can this kind of love/deisre be separated from any action? does this make a better case for the notion of the passionate pedant, who is most intimate with subjects and objects exactly because of his or her intense love and scrutiny of them? or does it simply imply the infinite iterations of that most ultimate of observer biases, the self - or, more specifically, the speaker who says "I"?

one thing i do know for sure, however, is that i am a huge fan of gingerbread man's yellow plaid shirt. i've really, really, really had an obsession with trying to find a suitable yellow plaid garment lately. it's my summer fashion goal. i think at this point i can safely say that for me, plaid is becoming the new houndstooth.

i was conned into buying a yellow plaid dress the other day for exactly this reason. okay - maybe conned is a strong way of putting it. but either way, i used my overwhelming desire for a yellow plaid dress as persuasion to buy a cheap-ass yellow plaid dress i saw in bushwick. it was far from being perfect and was not at all the type of yellow plaid i wanted (yes, you can be sure i've been looking at scottish tartan registries trying to find the most ideal kind of yellow plaid) but... the sad truth was that i needed to do laundry quite terribly and this plaid vision that entranced my eyes as i exited the J, weary and demoralized, seemed like a good way to kill two birds with one stone, as it were... for it was also true that i was going to a show that night and had nothing at all attractive to wear (excepting, of course, the few bridesmaids dresses and interview clothes inevitably still hanging in the very, very back of my closet.)

later that night at the actual show i got frustrated at myself because, as often happens, the drunker i got the more i danced and the more i spilt my drinks on myself. both things are not good news for a dress you are hoping to wear the next day to work. most of the bands were pretty atrocious and i stuck out from the rest of the crowd like a sore thumb but as i went as a favour to a dear friend i was more than determined to make a time of it. by the end of the night i was feeling pretty good as it is sometimes easier to get really rowdy in a crowd that is not at all your own. also, the last act was more than acceptable - they even vaguely reminded me of jane's addiction, a band i actually like. (in my mind, jane's addiction is also known as the band dave navarro was in back when he was fucking hot and wore cute skirts and was years away from such embarrassing, non-respectable blunders as marrying carmen electra.) the front man reminded me a lot of perry farrell and i heartily approved of his antics as they were exactly what i myself would have done had i been playing to a nearly empty club full of mostly uninteresting and listless people.

after security made "perry" get off a table he was standing on while singing, the show ended quickly. before clearing the stage, he yelled: "HEY CHECK OUT OUR MERCH TABLE SHIRTS NOW ONLY $5 WHATTA MARKDOWN WHOOOO!" or something like that. then a lightbulb dimly flickered in my intoxicated brain.... "cheap clothes! ....and i have no clean clothes! wow....i gotta get on this. shit!"

as we watched the roadie pack up, friend and i decided with insufferable drunken logic that what we really needed to do with my remaining $14 was get two last drinks - you know, to go home on. after a prolonged conference with the bartender about prices and possibilities, friend walked away with a beer and i walked away with a shot of grey goose. i then wandered over to the merch table, putting on my best puppy-dog face as i walked.

"perry" came immediately up to me.

(earlier in the evening they had wandered around begging people to stay for them as they were the last band on the bill.

"i guarantee you have heard nothing like us before!!!!" he had hissed in my ear.

"hmm." i had muttered, skeptical. "sooo.... a guarantee, huh? okay. so then, what do i get if i have heard something like you guys before?"

he paused, clearly taken aback.

"um...."

he thought for a while... then his face brightened. "you can slap me! you can slap all of us right across the face! huge slaps!!!"

"okay!" i had yelled. "i like those odds!")


"so," he said. "do i get a slap?"

"oh, no, you guys were pretty great," i said, as we began to shoot the shit. "um.... but.... i don't .....have enough .....money.... for a shirt.....sooooo..... maybe.... you........"

he laughed. "you don't even have like $2?"

"no," i frowned. "not even in change!"

"wellll..... " he hesitated. then he smiled. "okay. what size do you need?"



so, i put off laundry for another day. and all it cost me was a hug and a kiss on the cheek... and $40 in drinks. (sigh)

THE END

i always think of julia kristeva on hot days - how could you not?

it seems so obvious to me.
for what is more obvious than the scent of decay,
rotting food buzzing in the midday sun?
or the sticky itchy tops of arms stuck to slick subway seats?

the air hangs, heavy, with the smells we are usually successful in
pretending we don't have.
in subway cars we ride in tandem,
all these hidden places,
and today

we can smell their presence.

b.o., of course, rampant, stinging sweat choking
the air, but there is also
sickly-sweet piss, bitter shit,
melting deodorant, hair gel, perfume, lotion,
dirty feet, bad breath, farts, dirty clothes, leftovers, belches.
sweaty breasts dripping sweat, sweaty vaginas, sweaty balls.

(i am not being crude.
i smelled sweaty vagina just the other day on the uptown 3 train.
it hurt me to smell it, i cringed, because i recognized that smell for exactly what it was. i know it hurts you, too, because you know exactly what each of these things smells like
and you know exactly what each of these things smells like on you. )

i eat popsicles, i sit in my tiniest clothing
and i wonder
and i think about
how everyone in brooklyn,
how everyone in all five boroughs is eating popsicles,
and sitting in their tiniest clothing thinking

"it's hot. i'm hot. it smells. i smell."

so... i had the opportunity to go to a most interesting party tonight. a masquerade party, actually, for a sculptress, at the national arts club... right by gramercy park. i wasn't there more than ten minutes before i got adopted by a gay member. i love it! every time i go out in new york, like really out, all dressed up and such, i always get adopted by some gay personage. it makes me happy! they sort of take me under their wing, all indulgently. this 'mo's name was bob - and we bonded over a discussion of the works of oscar wilde. of course then i turned the discussion to philosophy and since he was a bit drunk we were able to take it there successfully.

through a strange turn of events i ended up... befriending... one of the djs. i also inadvertently discovered that the sullivan room, on sullivan, just north of houston, is a great place for breakbeat. on my way home i also lucked out in that essex was so dead i was really able to try out my new krink. however, my opinion on it is still mixed - it is still, in my mind, too runny, too smelly, and too messy. when i stopped at my fav fried chicken place in bed stuy for a snack before i went home, my buddy there was all like, "oh my god, what did you do to your hand?!" and i was drunk enough to loll against the counter and act all casual as i said "oh, i was just tagging the station while waiting for the train." he didn't even flinch. we then went on to discuss the finer points of emotional relativity before my food was ready - and then he wished me home safe, etc.

i guess the soda machine at crown fried chicken was out of order for some reason, so i popped into the bodega on the corner. i don't usually go to this one because it is both way more ghetto and way more frightening then my bodega of choice (that would be la esquina famosa, on linden and central). as i walked in the door, one of the guys in the store greeted me exuberantly. it didn't sound menacing, for once; it just sounded genuinely crazy, which was somehow much more comforting and understandable. so, i said "hey!" back and grabbed my seltzer and was on my way.

after i left, the guy that greeted me and his buddy were sitting outside the bodega against the pillars of the elevated train, in the typical neighborhood menace kind of way. as i recklessly ran across broadway i heard him shout to his friend, "no, no, no, don't ask her for (something). she's a nice girl. GOOOOOODNIIIIGHT!"

"GOODNIGHT!" i yelled across the street.

the birds are chirping now. goodnight.

just bought steinski's "what does it all mean?" on itunes. wow.... wow.
no words!

these are my first two picks:

It's Up To You (Television Mix)

Product Of The Environment (Redfern Gowanus Electro Mix)