1 the future is written.

2011-02-28T07:59:00.003-07:00

here:

(i am)

http://opehlias-rue.blogspot.com/

2010-12-08T06:26:00.003-07:00

idon'tloveyouanymoregoodbye

another man's vine.

2010-12-07T21:17:00.003-07:00

help me. help me dig my way out of this.

help me dig my way.

help me.

i've been throwing up for the last 20 minutes.

an upheaval. at the sight of it. repulsion. i've never felt such black fucking repulsion. and i keep hearing marisa's voice

"it doesn't change anything. it has nothing to do with your life. it hasn't for years. it's over. it changes nothing." it changes nothing it changes nothing. nothing changes.

i'm over here. they are over there. and what's between us. disease.

the blackness in my gut that i am spewing out.

a woman died today of a broken heart and it was

just. like. this.

robot by the river.

2010-12-04T15:40:00.001-07:00

i've been listening to a whole heck of a lot of smog lately. i've always loved those few records he put out in the mid 90's but i had them on the wait list, had to make sure they weren't just cotton candy. those records are what i call "time capsule records," records that i can put on & be immediately transported back to a certain time in my life. soundtracks to a time in my life. there are 3 records, and they have really held up. i like them all. i like them in succession. i like them separately. i like them in context to each other. i like them on their own. i really, really like them. they're up there with some of my favorite records ever.

not much is known about bill callahan. he's an enigma. i've heard people say that he's misogynistic but i've never gotten that, or it never offended me because it never felt like a generalized sentiment, it's very pointed and it's very specific and i think he's just deeply sarcastic. i think he's just brilliant. he's ascerbic and cutting but his delivery is soooo stoic and ambiguous and there's a strange breathy loveliness to his voice that is just staggering. i really think that bill callahan is up there with leonard cohen and nick cave and stephin merritt with that stark, rancorous delivery, minus the self-importance (and i mean self-importance in the best way possible, in each of their respective ways). he has a very self-loathing vibe in his delivery, and it's not like an elvis costello where he's spitting venom very mercurially. the thing that is amazing is that bill callahan doesn't have the sort of bravado that a lot of the greats have, yet he is completely believable. i can't get into his new records, i'm not into his whole folksy thing, but the three records of his that are my favorite are, as follows:

1. Wild Love. 1995. this was callahan's first record in a real studio, so you get some tinkering and varied instrumentation instead of just the acoustic, low-fi stuff. his then girlfriend cynthia dall co-wrote 3 of the tracks, and played a pretty muted acoustic guitar on much of the record. jim o'rourke played cello. there are keyboards and chamberlin as well as electric and acoustic guitars and these very early-era indie drums (mostly snare) that bug me everywhere else but on smog records. with smog there is this brilliant lone electric guitar thing that is very clean and sort of pops out from the band in the mix. sort of equal parts kurt cobain, neil young and ennio morricone. lyrically wild love is an incredibly frustrated record. if people have called callahan misogynistic, this record has a lot to do with it. it's not a concept record, but there is a common theme in all of the songs: frustration with women. the songs are at different stages of relationships, not necessarily the same one. there are songs about unrequited love and rejection through to a live-in girlfriend. the opening track, bathysphere, is one of his most brilliant songs, with a hypnotic synth and guitar rhythm. there are a few very brief songs that are strange and varied and experimental. it's rough is the ultimate grump anthem ("don't turn to me cause i don't know what to do/maybe you should have a drink/i don't why you ever stopped anyway"). ice cold. great record.

2. The Doctor Came at Dawn. 1996. here lies the breakup record. this is really one of my all time favorite breakup records ever. it's so unflinchingly honest, so biting, so raw. this is an acoustic record, with cello and strings and piano occasionally. the opening track, you moved in, has such a foreboding quality that within the first couple of notes you can feel it coming and then the vocals and strings come in and it's almost palpable, the heartache. lize is a duet with cynthia dall, and they sing "you don't make lies like you used to" just out of synch, not quite in unison, and the tension is almost too much. somewhere in the night and whistling teapot are insanely chiding, deeply sarcastic songs with almost mocking falsetto and handclaps, and it's unclear whether it's self-deprecating or jeering, perhaps both. everything you touch becomes a crutch has some of those little quips as well, mixed in with a whole lot of frustration and sadness and it's perhaps my favorite song on the record. all your women things, in my humble opinion, is one of the most staggering love songs ever written. this song can pretty much make me cry every time that i hear it. it's a deeply reproachful song, with so much longing and yet his use of that misogynistic malevolence is so fucking brilliant, because he somehow manages to not come off as being irreverent or even angry, really. one just gets a sense of regret. stellar record. truly.

3. Red Apple Falls. 1997. a lot of people say that this was his finest hour, and it's hard to disagree. there's certainly a more evolved sound, and callahan was getting more into the sort of spaghetti western, stark americana/southwest thing here, with weepy pedal steel and sighing steel guitars. the piano and drums are really fantastic on this record, real piano and real drums and it sounds great. red apples and red apple falls are incredibly mournful songs about a failed love affair and blood red bird and inspirational have a lovely expansiveness and ambiguity to them. ex-con is sort of the quintessential smog song, with horns, electric guitar, piano, synth washes and a mechanical beat and classic callahan lyrics "alone in my room i feel like such a part of the community/but out on the streets/i feel like a robot by the river/looking for a drink."

double entendre.

2010-11-18T17:38:00.003-07:00

i haven't been able to cry for a few weeks now. it's really weird for me because i am a complete baby. everything makes me cry. i cry all the time. but for a few weeks now, nothing. all of the sudden this afternoon something hit me and i just lost it. and now i can't stop crying. funny.

sometimes, someone will come along and really knock your block off. at first in a good way and then, inevitably, in a bad way. because i don't know how to let it go. ever. i don't know how to just let things go.

you know the thing i wish for, more than anything else, more than the ability to be skinny or the ability to not obsess about my weight, or the ability to drink alcohol like a normal person or the ability to sever peoples heads by using the ancient art of karat-e? i wish that i could get over people. i wish i had the ability to say to myself, "this person does not love you. the end." and i wish i had the ability to not love them anymore. i wish i knew how to stop caring about people. i honestly do. i'd be so much more productive. all that i can think about lately are the people that i miss and care about that don't really even like me. not really. i somehow manage to attract a lot of people that don't really like me that much. and i know why i do, duh. but i still do and i still do care about them and i think, i should know better. why don't i know better? i'm just so tired of myself. i continue to be tired of myself.

i wish i knew how to...
i wish i knew.

killing time.

2010-11-09T06:58:00.006-07:00

i felt really anxious yesterday.
it's to the point now where even simply having a weekend off, i find it sort of impossible to come back to work. i sit there all day on mondays staring at my computer and i watch the e-mails coming in and i think, "i can't do this. i can't fucking do this."

sometimes i can't believe the sheer force of the natural momentum of things. i have tried, many times, to go back to something that i have left and it never works. somehow it never works. i think it's that we believe that something is a solid truth, something unquestioned. reality. and once we see another way, once we see a different reality, we can't go back to the old one. we can't put all of our faith in it again. we put so much weight on something, some person, some relationship, some job, some place, some situation that we believe that they are gravity itself. we hold on tight. and once we let go and start to float, we can't believe that that thing is gravity anymore. i sit at my job and i think, "this is not work." this is work:

i think too that we can spend much of our lives not really present in them. i spent most of my life that way. for the first time, last year, i spent a few months really present in my life. now i am back to not really being here and it's terrible. i think this is why people get sick. i look in the mirror and i don't recognize myself and i look old. and it's really scary. i had the invaluable experience of driving across country, from california to georgia and back, last year. and i couldn't believe the difference between driving somewhere and flying. because by the time i got to georgia, i was really in georgia. one city, one state, one hour, one mile at a time, i got there. i look in the mirror and i think, "how did i get here? where AM i?" i think the most scary thing in the world is the feeling that life is passing you by. people say to me all the time, "it's only a few more months." a few more months of not being where i am. just a few months to kill. the thought of throwing away this year, an entire year! makes me so sad. i am sure that the "lessons" learned in this year will be invaluable. but i'm tired of learning the hard way.

i had dinner with my father last night and he said, "so what's next? move home and live with dad?" and i sort of tried not to cry and nodded and he said, "well it's not the end of the world!" and i nodded. right. but, at 32 years old, did i ever expect to be living at home with my dad, with no clue what i'm going to do with my life? good god, no. NO!

whenever i'm freaking out marisa always reminds me of a laundry list of dudes that i was hung up on, and she says, "thank god you didn't end up with that dude. i mean, you can see now that that guy was the worst, right? see how that all worked out?" and i do have to admit that things seem to fall into place as they need to, without my kicking and screaming and worry. does that stop me from kicking, screaming and worrying? no. not a drop.

medical transcription.

2010-11-07T16:17:00.005-07:00

the curving of calves

the changing of lanes

this rain's got me down

low to the ground

the covers pulled around me our hands lie

directly

blink

before the image escapes me

what was it baby

"like pulling teeth" you say you said to me

i wanted to lie

to you

i wanted to lie

in bed

all day

with something in my mouth

something solid and sturdy

your cartilage and

bone

something jagged

something resembling your crown

your royal crux

the lock of your jaw

you're the thorn in my paw

tonguing old wounds

i want your tongue in my mouth

i want to speak with another tongue

no foreign tongue

a sovereign one

your sovereign

one

i want to know your lips your lips

your lips as well as your tongue does

i want to slide into the gap

between your teeth

with the greatest of ease

i want to feel with the tender tip of

a thousand taste buds your shallow

ridges

and the bridges

of the city where you were born

i want your hand in mine when i finally

take a flying

leap

i want to feel you

jerking jerking jerking

me back

i want to knock your teeth out i want to

hear your gums

a flapping

i want to put your

teeth in my mouth

i want to feel your chatter

i want to greet you wearing

nothing but your smile

i want to drill for gold inside your caverns

i want to be your fool

your trusty mule

the ass you pack

with dynamite

sure-footed hearty

i want your burning fuse

i want a tiny pouch

a lock of your hair

your baby, baby, baby fine

oh baby

teeth in my pocket

i want the clamor of your fillings

like change

i want to hold them like tiny diamonds

i want to go down on

the ship

sunk by your

loose lips

i want to wrap my limbs around

fingers around those

pearly whites

i want to pull them out

i want to swallow them like

little pills

i want your medicine well

i want to feel them sliding down my throat

sharply

landing in my belly

i want to take you inside me

baby

planting your seed

i want your tiny mouth to grow

inside of me

i want your teeth a tearing

at my uterine walls

i want to give birth

to your words

oh the things that

they would say

oh the sounds they would make

the letters

your fingers

spelled out

in my bed

my russia.

2010-11-02T21:13:00.008-06:00

i've come for a party. long rows of tables with metal folding chairs. there are gallons of vodka in plastic jugs at the center and at each end of the tables. heavy clouds of cigarette smoke hover in the air.

i sit and wait for him to be done flirting with the pretty girls and bantering with the boys. i sit at the end of an empty table. i pull a tiny orange from my bag and begin peeling it, delicately, never tearing the skin.

a fight breaks out. shouting. indecipherable, even in russian. a glass hits the brick wall and shatters. he throws himself into the middle of things. two giant bodies with fists aimed at one another, his small body slides between them,

"heyheyheyhey!" he shouts, his right arm raised between two cocked fists. he is scrappy.

the crowd slowly dwindles. he is leaning on an amplifier with his mouth up to the ear of a tall blonde. she has short hair like mia farrow in rosemary's baby. the blades of her shoulders stick out of her back like wings. she lets out a hushed giggle every few seconds. her fingers brush his arm as she goes to leave with a group of guys. he looks at her a little too long and she doesn't meet his gaze. i sit at the end of the table with my chin in my hands. my fingers smell like oranges.

a tall woman comes and starts to fold up all of the chairs. i start to help her. she doesn't ever look at me but has an appreciative smile on her face. we line the chairs up in short rows at the back of the room. when we are done she looks at me and bows her head. i can tell that she does not speak english. i feel completely appreciated.

he slides down the wall and his body collapses next to me on the floor. he leans his head on my shoulder.

"spasiba." someone says and he nods.

i put my hand out and his fingers slide through mine.

he leads me by the hand through the glass doors. as i enter the room i catch my breath. someone i love lived in this room. his ghost is still lingering and it's his breath i feel on my neck.

we climb the ladder to his bed.

"i'm thinking: dress off." he says. his fingers nervously fumble through layers.

after a while he rolls over on his back. "i have to be at the train station in like 4 hours and i gotta get some sleep. it's just not gonna happen tonight." he sighs. i have no response to this.

soon he is at my back again. "who needs sleep?" he whispers.

i lay there and i open my eyes to look at his face and i can't see it. the shapes hover there and form nothing. suddenly he opens his eyes and i feel as if i've been poking at a dead animal and just realized that it is still alive.

"what?" he says

"i'm sorry. i just-i don't know why i'm here." i say.

and he lays back and pulls a cigarette out of the pocket of his jeans. he doesn't want to talk about it and neither do i.

he falls asleep quickly. i listen to the rain hit the tin roof and think about that beautiful ghost, lying where i am lying, listening to the rain falling on the tin roof. i know why i am here. i have lost something and i want to find it in this room. i know at this moment that it is gone.

i wait until the light starts to come in through the curtains and i feel around and collect my clothes. i am pulling my boots on. he opens one eye and looks at me with a frown. i don't say anything.

"i'll walk you out." he whispers.

"aw." i say. "no, stay. it's okay."

"no- i have to." he says, pulling on his jeans. "the door doesn't lock..." he says.

"oh. how romantic." i mumble.

at the door he hugs me goodbye. we look at each other but i still can't see him. his eyes are blank and i think, he can't see me either.

as i walk down the street i raise my fingers to my face. beneath the smell of him on my skin, i think i can make out the scent of my orange.

sick as fuck.

2010-11-01T20:46:00.003-06:00

i can't believe it. i actually can't. what a season. i feel so god damn happy.

gold caterpillar.

2010-10-31T17:51:00.005-06:00

i spent all my dollars

all my dollars all

my dollars

at the haus

on a silk butterfly with

shining blue wings.

About that game.

2010-10-29T07:24:00.001-06:00

All day people been talking to me about how the Giants are killing it. I mean, I'm happy that the Giants won, but I didn't think game 1 was a good game. I thought it was a sloppy mess. On both sides. The Giants got lucky because Texas was even sloppier than they were.

I don't have television (which is admittedly a bit of a bummer when The Giants are in the World Series), but that means that I get to listen to the games on the radio with Giants announcers instead of the douchebags from Fox, which actually rips. Last night Kruk & Kuip mentioned that Barry Bonds was at the park. When Uribe hit a home run in the 3rd, Kruk says, "You gotta wonder what a hitter like Barry Bonds thinks when he sees somebody like Juan Uribe." and Kuip says, "I'm sure he must be appreciating the pure power of a hitter like that." Which made me actually LOL (emphasis on the "pure." to quote obama on the daily show: pun intended). Seeing Barry Bonds sitting there made me think about how the leagues have sorta "come correct" again now that the steroid era is done. It's cool to see the Nash (& The Giants) back to its former goodness.

The reason I am (sorta) bummed out by the last 2 games is that I was uber excited about the matchup between Texas & SF. Texas is rather National League-esque with its combo of brilliant pitching and ensamble cast of hitters, I was looking forward to some small ball. After game 2 it's become really clear to me that Texas is truly an American League Team. DH Vlad Guerrero actually having to play defense in right field was an absolute disaster. Game 2 was fantastic up until the 8th, when Texas' bullpen had an actual MELTDOWN.

I remember watching the All Star game the year that ARod had gone to the Yankees. This was really at the boiling point (I mean, right before the ship started to TANK) of the homerun/ steroids phase. I remember watching the All Star game and thinking about how despite ALL of the brilliant players, it was a sloppy mess. There was no cohesion. But the AL made it happen because they had these homerun hitters, and these endless bullpen pitchers. The defense was AWFUL, but ultimately they won. Teams like the Yankees end up being those All Star teams. What I hate about the AL is that they put somebody like ARod (a shortstop) at 3rd base. Somebody who has no business in left field like Manny Ramirez ends up tanking in the National League because he can't pull his weight. Texas doesn't look like a team, they are not playing like a team. They're playing like they are sending one star up at a time to try to win the game, but when one doesn't come through, the whole thing falls apart.

I want the Giants to win the World Series. Of course. But I want it to be an interesting series. I can't wait to see what happens with Texas back at home.

current obsessions.

2010-10-25T12:30:00.012-06:00

love.

2010-10-24T18:06:00.004-06:00

kind of a strange week. there's been a torrential downpour the entire weekend, which helps when you have an apartment to disassemble in a month. i woke up at my usual ungodly hour after yet another sleepless night (thanks to hooting and hollering giants fans, whom i can not blame for their excitement) and figured that since the entire city was hungover it was the perfect time to do laundry. i live with a certain amount of anxiety over laundry at all times. will i be able to carry it all down and back up the stairs, do i have quarters, will there be any machines, will there be hobos hassling me, will i contract full blown aids from my underpants touching a washing machine that touched a junky hooker's underpants, on and on. this morning i was pleased to find that the laundromat was empty save for one middle aged mexican man washing his wranglers.

i typically go to a laundromat right next to the apartment(s) that i shared with my ex. i go to the ultra hipster coffee shop that we used to go to and get 2 muffins (on one plate, 'cause it's cute) and coffees and sit and talk about the three b's: baseball, bruce springsteen and bob dylan. i pay $4 for a cup of single drip coffee and i stand there and listen to the baristas in their tight pants and fitted button down shirts and throwback sneakers talking about whatever show they went to the night before and bi-rite sandwiches and whatever the coolest newest breakfast place is. and i don't even feel self-conscious about my crappy cleveland indians sweatshirt or my paint splattered jeans or my frizzy hair, i feel like my time is done. i just look around and think about what it was like to be young in the city.

this week the giants played a lot of crazy ass baseball and got themselves into the world series. the giants were in the world series the first year that i lived in the city, and now as i am getting ready to leave (this time for good) they are back in the world series. and it feels like a really sweet way to go out.

this week i met up with one of my favorite people ever, ever, greti, who is also the mother of one of my favorite people ever, ever, parker zane allen. greti and i met at an old haunt, lefty o'douls, and watched game 4 of the nlcs. i first met greti the night after her son zane passed away in 2006. we spent a lot of time together in the months after he died, a time that i call the best-worst time of my life. i haven't seen greti in a little over 2 years. zane was a true character, and the apple did not fall far from the tree. knowing greti somehow managed to make me love zane even more. zane was the biggest baseball fan i've ever met, and greti is the only other female baseball fan i've ever met. we were sitting there together watching the game, talking about how long it's been and how she's not really in touch with zane's friends anymore, and she said,

"even though i'm not, the time that we spent together was so intense, there was so much there that nothing can change that. i mean, i love you. i think about you all the time. and even if i don't see you or talk to you, that's always there."

and it just hit me in this really profound way. because that's how i feel about zane. even though he is not "here" i think about him every day. i can still hear his voice, i can still picture his face, and every time i have a really great cup of single drip coffee or i see a 2nd baseman make a great play, or a fantastic game, or baseball players clearing the benches, i think about zane and the big, bemused grin that would be on his face at that moment. and he's with me. it's been 4 years since he died and nothing changes that.

i've been thinking about that a lot lately, what greti so beautifully put. love doesn't go anywhere. there was a lot of love for me here, once, and somehow, through it all, i still carry all of that. that has been confusing for me for a long time, but lately i feel differently about it. i feel like in my life, in this place especially, i have gotten to really love the fuck out of some people. a lot of shit went down here. when i left the first time, i felt like i left defeated. i felt like this city and everything i experienced in it kicked my ass. i think i came back here determined to change that. but of course it turned out completely differently than i had planned.

sometimes i think i'm just a stupid masochist. i keep pounding my head against the same walls. but i realize that something in me refuses to lose. i have had something to prove. i just never realized that it was only me that i needed to prove it to. i came back to the city and back to this job and i realize that it's completely wrong for me. and it always was, really. but i needed to know that i could handle it. i needed to know that i am capable. and i do know that. but what i realize is that i have to choose what i spend my energy on. and it doesn't make me a failure if i don't like this job, or this city. it doesn't make me a failure just because i don't wildly succeed at something, it makes me unwilling to settle.

and for my next trick i will attempt to once again reduce an entire apartment full of crap into just enough boxes to fit into the back of my dad's pickup truck.

complete the deec!

2010-10-23T21:21:00.004-06:00

i think i just peed my pants.

holy fucking shit.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

(mind the gap)

2010-10-21T19:39:00.003-06:00

(missing)

http://lesritesdespassage.tumblr.com/

this just in.

2010-10-19T19:13:00.000-06:00

tonight i came home and was sitting on my sofa, and a pigeon came and flew at full speed right smack into my window, about a foot from my face. it was so loud that i jumped up and across the room and shouted "what the fuck!" then i heard a sort of battered wailing as it plummeted to the alleyway on the side of my building, and then a cross between a splat and a thud as it hit pavement.

i've been sitting here in a state of shock. i've thought about it for the last good 5 minutes, and friends, i think that i've come to the conclusion that it was suicide. i feel like it must have been suicide. listen, i don't know what the trouble was with that pigeon and it's fucking dead now so i can't ask it. but the only other possibility is that it was charging straight for my actual face.

new developments.

2010-10-19T19:10:00.003-06:00

it's been about 6 minutes now and as i'm writing this a whole range of emotions are coming up. i'm sorry to tell you this but i think that it probably was, it probably was charging for my actual face. that bird was on a suicide mission! there must have been a little rally of like minded pigeons who got together in order to activate for the cause of pecking my actual face off, and the ring leader must have been like, "we need a volunteer, we need someone that is willing to give their life for the cause!" and that brave pigeon must have raised up it's wing and said, "i will do it."

about that pigeon.

2010-10-19T19:09:00.001-06:00

you know what.

that little fucking pigeon may have been mowed down by my window in the midst of committing an act of terrorism onto my actual face! but the mission failed, you guys. the mission failed because that pigeon didn't break through the window and reach my actual face. they should have sent morbidly obese pigeon in for the kill! but i understand, it's a question of velocity. with morbidly obese pigeon you get the power but don't get the speed you need. i respect their decision.

you know what!

2010-10-19T19:08:00.001-06:00

now there is a super old pigeon sitting on the pigeon poop covered drain pipe across from my window staring at me.

i'd like to say to him and all other pigeons around:

you stupid fucking pigeons! you can't get to my actual face! you can't win! i'm a giant ass human and you're a tiny rat with wings! i could crush your tiny skull with my bare hands!

circling back on that whole pigeon debacle.

2010-10-19T19:04:00.004-06:00

now i'm thinking back on what i said about those pigeons with some feelings of remorse. do you think that all the pigeons heard my chiding and are gathering now to activate a plan of attack that will involve descending unto me with the powers of their combined rage and plucking out every single strand of hair on my head?

i mean i know that pigeons don't have internet access, but do you think that they picked up my brain waves on their evil bird frequency and are planning their revenge?

a public apology.

2010-10-19T19:01:00.000-06:00

i'd like to apologize about what i said earlier about pigeons being tiny rats with wings and about crushing their tiny skulls with my bare hands and whatnot. that was uncouth and you know what else, it was uncalled for! i lost my head in the midst of all of the confusion. listen, it may have been a suicide or it may have actually been a failed suicide mission to peck my actual face off, we'll never know for sure. irregardless! irregardless, the fact of it is that that little pigeon is dead now. he may have been a little fucking terrorist or he may have just been a lost soul but he's gone now and i'm sorry. i'm sorry that that pigeon went on up to the big filthy fucking sidewalk covered in a smorgasbord of rotting trash in the sky and is no longer with us. i'm sorry to all pigeons around. please do not pluck out every hair on top of my head.

thank you.

good night.

the three cocos.

2010-10-18T10:41:00.002-06:00

there have been 3 films put out over the last couple of years about coco chanel. i've seen them all. natch.

coco chanel is a legend, there is so much mythology surrounding her life. her legacy as far as fashion is concerned is clear, it's her personal life that is full of mystery.

chanel's mother died when she was 12 and her father left her at an orphanage, where she learned to be a seamstress. from there, the details get hazy. she spent some time singing in cabarets, and ended up living with a textile heir called etienne balzan as his mistress. through balzan she met the english tycoon boy capel, with whom she had a 9 year affair that ended when capel was killed in an auto accident. capel gave chanel the money to open her first shop in paris, selling her hats, and from there she began making clothes.

i'm quite interested in famous mistresses, and coco chanel is one. she was never married, but had numerous affairs. chanel is sort of the archtypal leo, ruthlessly driven, larger than life, but more of a madonna than a jennifer lopez. chanel was never the mistress waiting for a man to leave his wife, she had affairs because she did not want to be married. this may have been because she'd been so heartbroken over capel, but it may not have been. some say that chanel was heartbroken because etienne balsan wouldn't marry her. some say that she was devestated when boy capel married another woman in the middle of their affair. others say that she had no intention of marrying either balsan or capel, but positioned herself as their mistress to launch her business. she was arrested and charged with being a british spy by the gestapo during world war 2 and some have said that she had an affair with a nazi spy in order to continue living in paris during the war. she may have been a social climber who used men to further her career. she may have been a heartbroken woman who vowed never to love again. it's all speculation, and that's where biographers come in and sprinkle their fairy dust.

the first film that i saw was coco before chanel. great movie. stars audrey tatou. the first time that i saw it i wondered if audrey tatou (eternally haunted by amelie) was too adorable to play this part, but at the end of the film there is this moment where you see her in her iconic white suit, cigarette in hand, sitting at the top of the chanel staircase, sending models down the runway and she looks undeniably chanel. the film gives you an idea of what hardened coco chanel, the heartbreak that turned her into chanel the legend. the sets are fabulous, the acting is great. the way that the etienne balsan character is played is brilliant. i tend to find this version of the story the more believable of the two. i'll say no more, because you really ought see this movie.

the second film is coco chanel. this movie stars shirley mclaine as coco chanel. this was an attempt at putting an iconic actor in the role of an iconic character in the hopes that the sheer force of the two would combine and create something great. when you have a larger than life actor that is not a character actor who can just disappear into a role, it takes enough similarity between the two figures to make the viewer excuse the actor's undeniable presence. this would be the difference between a chamelion like cate blanchett becoming bob dylan (or katharine hepburn), and the david bowie playing andy warhol. as hard as it is to not like shirley mclaine, this was not a success. shirley mclaine is fantastic, but she is not coco chanel. one sees only shirley mclaine in the role, and apart from being a bit brash and outspoken, shirley mclaine has little in common with coco chanel. the film relies heavily on flashback scenes of a young, and very french actress playing coco chanel in her early years. the film is centered around her affairs with etienne balzan & boy capel, and this is the overly romanticized version of the story. this movie is chick flick sappy, in fact it's pretty much lifetime (television for women!) movie of the week sappy. perhaps because this was actually a television movie that was actually broadcast on lifetime television for women. there you go.

the third film is coco chanel and igor stravinsky. i am so in love with this film. gorgeous lighting, gorgeous sets, gorgeous period details, gorgeous photography, superb actors. this film begins where the other two leave off, at the death of boy capel. the film is centered around the alleged brief affair between coco chanel and igor stravinsky. the acting is unbelievable. the actress who plays chanel is spot on. she has an animal presence, at times she is a gazelle, at times a cat, she has a sublime low voice that absolutely purs. the actress who plays stravinsky's wife katia is staggering. you feel at times like a voyeur, or as if you are packed into this house right along with the stravinsky family and coco chanel. the characters are so complex, there is so much duality, so much confusion as the affair goes on, and the actors move through such a range with the same subtle grace with which they go from speaking french to russian. there is a moment in the film where a major shift occurs, and it's so thoroughly jarring that it feels like taking a punch. it leaves you breathless and confused, the moment where you realize that the person you are sleeping with is a complete stranger. i've said too much, pardon my gushing. please see this film.

an introduction.

2010-10-15T20:46:00.011-06:00

this marks the first time i've ever written an introduction to something i've written. because i think it's ridiculous and pompous and self-important. but this is a blog, so, by nature it is ridiculous and pompous and self-important. there's my disclaimer. on with it.

i've always been a bit of a nostalgia junky, and i've been known to linger over the biographies and letters of great men. a few years ago, in the midst of a deep fascination for all things maria callas, i found myself standing at pere lachaise cemetery in paris in front of rows and rows of gold plaques that line the walls of the crematorium. i had a conversation with an old french man there (one of the two people that i encountered in paris who was kind enough to speak english) about her ashes, which were removed from the cemetery and scattered to the agean sea-- where she had began her affair with onassis on one of his ships. callas had left her husband to be with onassis, but he never married her, and famously married jackie kennedy instead. their affair had continued after he'd put the o in jackie o, and callas died at the age of 57 of a broken heart (heart attack), 2 years after onassis passed away. there is so much folklore about their affair, i always found myself wishing that i could read their letters. while i was in paris i had the idea of writing love letters to onassis from maria callas. but maria callas' is a voice too great for the likes of little old me.

the fdr idea began in early 2009. it was a strange time in america, obama had just been elected and there were many comparisons to former presidents, lincoln and jimmy carter were discussed largely. but it was the state of the economy and comparisons to the great depression that got me thinking. i was staying with my father and we were talking a lot about fdr and the new deal. we began reading political biographies about fdr and the great depression and i, romantic twit that i am, am always fascinated with the affairs of great men.

it was in the spring of 2009 when i was living in rural southwest georgia, between the home (and campaign headquarters!) of jimmy carter, the andersonville civil war memorial, the p.o.w. museum, and warm springs, that the idea began to take shape. warm springs georgia is a town where fdr purchased a resort that he made into an institute for hydrotherapy treatment for polio patients. fdr had a home in warm springs, and he died there. i was doing volunteer work and visiting all of these historical sites on my weekends and feeling a rather southern (read: romantic) kind of patriotic nostalgia.

the story goes that fdr had an affair with lucy mercer, who was eleanor roosevelt's secretary beginning in 1914. it is said that eleanor roosevelt discovered love letters between mercer and fdr in 1918 and offered fdr a divorce. his mother convinced them not to divorce because of the effect on his political career. eleanor, being just as politically active as her husband (and becoming the original hillary), agreed to stay married to fdr under two conditions: he was never to see lucy mercer again, and she would never again sleep with him. she also lived in a separate home from her husband. fdr agreed to this, but it was lucy mercer, not the first lady, who was with fdr when he died at his home in warm springs in 1945.

in late 2008 letters between lucy mercer and fdr were discovered, but they were more chatty than romantic. many have said that all letters containing anything personal between fdr and lucy mercer were destroyed by eleanor. very little is known about the affair because of this. so, i started this piece in late spring of last year. i didn't feel able to finish the letters. i realized that i was only writing fragments because what the piece needed to be was scraps. i wanted to create the letters, yellowed and faded and smudged and tear stained pages, torn up by the hand of eleanor roosevelt.

i felt frustrated by my writing, perhaps unable to truly empathize. but it's funny how life imitates art. or whatever. i put this piece aside and went off to live for a while and sort of forgot about it. a few weeks ago i was writing a love letter of my own when i had to stop and wonder if i was really writing this piece all over again. i can't say that i'm entirely happy with it. i think i want less of myself in it.

there you have it.

the end.

excerpts from love letters from lucy mercer to fdr.

2010-10-15T20:45:00.005-06:00

my dearest franklin,

the weeks without word loom above me like the thick clouds of a georgia thunder storm. i'm useless here, now, in these days. lost in this fog. and you, in all of your glory, so far from me.

in this i am your flower, once wild and lovely on the vine, plucked by your hand and withering in your palm.

since i've known you, the longing is consuming. this longing like a fever that never breaks.
i realize that there are no longer two of us, there are four. for i am as split in two as you are. with you, i belong to you. away from you, i am another woman entirely. i don't know how to reconcile them, these two versions of myself.

i see us together as one, i see us as one of those truly remarkable couples, the ones in oil portraits and great novels. but the thing of it is that you are already in one of those couples. and your life,

and yet my joy, my disbelief that we found one another. we glimpsed some other self, one that was at once foreign and completely familiar. i saw in you a life i could only dream for myself. a home on the other side. it burned hot and fast and away from you just leaves me cold.

i've never known such a hunger.

and the other you, the man at her side, i see you there and i am sinking from you, in leagues, sinking with your fleets in the coral sea. and the current pulls me down and i see you with her, in all of your regal grace, and the nation rolls out before you and there before your dignitaries and there in frames you are two, casting your shadow at the mouth of the rhine.

i see you in your christmas blush, children at your feet. and further i sink, my heart and body heavy with these feelings of jealousy and inadequacy. resenting what i see you giving to someone else, resenting what i wish was mine. and how can i resent her? the woman, in all of her greatness. belonging as much to the world as she does to you. and it is her, evermore, tending your inaugural sleeves. for she is queen and i, in my simple dress, only a girl at the fair, awaiting your carnival barking with all of the others who paid their fare.

you came to me like cotton candy, hot pink and sweet and leaving tiny beads of sugar on my tongue. but you see, i got you all over my face and hands and as you started to melt away, there remained our mess. something sticky staining my fingers and dress. and i've begun to feel sick.

what is withheld from me, what is swallowed, just leaks out of us into this void, and the forms become so blurry. until i can't see the lines between me and you, between her and these worlds that merge with our squelched desires. and there are days where i am sure that i will never possess you, not really, not fully, that i will never hold your heart in my hands. and others where i am sure that i do possess you, really, fully, and that i hold your heart in my hands. but there is no place between, no place for us. and i glimpse two planets, one of love and one of hate, and i just want to find earth. and i close my eyes, i lie on my back, i reach out in the dark and i don't find you. i've nothing to cling to. nothing in me carries on your name. i can only whisper your name like a secret. aloud there are only titles. aloud your name belongs to her. aloud your name belongs to the people.

i want to run, into fields and canyons and i want to feel the ground beneath my feet, and i want to keep running, knowing always that you are farther and farther behind. and yet, as i run the heat of my heart pounding in my chest rises into my throat, and i know, only you burn so brightly there, and the sparks rain down and light the edges of my skirt, and my hems in flames, and then the water comes in warm around me until again i am floating there, the heat of my hands upon your flesh. and there is only you and i in warm springs. and the light consumes and fills and your eyes tell me, by our love, you are healed.

i see you, rising from your four posts on the gallant legs of a thousand horses, to your podium your pulpit
the pale tweed and linen of your suit reflecting, a halo of gold light.
blue eagles circle around you
and it is there among the faithful
congregates awaiting your word
packed in tight
awaiting your stentorian echo
you look up at me from the brim of your hat
it is there i stand
throwing roses to you, sweetly.
and i know again i will come

i remain,
your lucy.

laying awake.

2010-10-14T21:59:00.003-06:00

it's just too much. it's just gotten to be too much.

i think, it's only been 7 months.

but then i think, it's been 7 months, and 7 1/2 years.

and i think that it's the 7 1/2 years of it that washes over me. that pulls me under. that i did this for so many years. that i lived this sort of life for so many years. that i was so miserable, so fragmented, so shut down, so cut off, so dead.

something really died in me when steve and i split up. it got really dark. and there was a lot of darkness when i was with him, but he was my light. and when he was gone things just got incredibly dim. and i couldn't see anymore, i was just treading water. and i think being back here and doing this again i...maybe it's knowing that i lived like this for so long that is so painful. maybe it's all of those lost years that make me so entirely resistant to this life. this droning life.

when i left here the first time i was scared, but it was exciting. it became very exciting. and now it seems there is no excitement, i can't muster it. there is only worry.

i'm afraid lately. i'm very, very afraid. i'm afraid of this life. i'm afraid of my job. i'm afraid of the greedy and cold and critical and competitive and mean and shut down people that i interact with 40 hours a week. i'm afraid of my reaction to them, which is to be cold and critical and competitive and defensive and shut down. i'm afraid of my body, of the way that all of this hardening changes my body. i'm afraid of being sick. i'm afraid of colds and sprains and bruises and rashes and reactions. i'm afraid of being 32 years old. i'm afraid of what being alone for 5 years has done to me. i'm afraid of having been alone for 5 years. i'm afraid of being alone for the rest of my life. i'm afraid that i never get over anyone, that i just add them to this well of sadness and longing and regret that i carry around. i'm afraid that nothing will ever replace it. i'm afraid of the stranger on the other end of the country that pulls me in. i'm afraid that nothing is real. i'm afraid that it's all a joke. i'm afraid that i will wake up at 45 and nothing will have changed for me. i'm afraid that i will die alone. i'm afraid that i will end up spending my adulthood caring for my parents instead of raising my own family. i'm afraid that i will be one of those women that are old but never really became a woman. i'm afraid that i will never be kissed again. i'm afraid that i'm going to really lose it one of these nights and actually murder my upstairs neighbor. i'm afraid of the junkies that live in the residential hotels on my street. i'm afraid of the way that their bodies are decaying, i'm afraid of the lives that they used to have, i'm afraid of what their families must feel, i'm afraid of what they do in order to survive, i'm afraid of the way that it smells when i step out of my building in the morning. i'm afraid of the little kids in my building that have to grow up seeing the filth and misery and truly scary shit that they see every day. i'm afraid of who they will grow up to be. i'm afraid that pigeons will fly straight into my face and peck out my eyes. i'm afraid that i am really hideous and everyone can see it. i'm afraid i will have these tattoos on my skin for the rest of my life. i'm afraid that my hair is gray. i'm afraid of cellulite. i'm afraid that everyone can see how fat i am. i'm afraid that i am talentless. i'm afraid of being poor for the rest of my life. i'm afraid that i am going to go into foreclosure on my house and regret it for the rest of my life. i'm afraid of what kind of a person that makes me. i'm afraid of how many years i have been living with the weight of that house on my shoulders. i'm afraid of letting my father down. i'm afraid of never being able to buy a house again. i'm afraid of hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. i'm afraid of responsibility. i'm afraid of my past. i'm afraid of my future. i'm really afraid of the present. i'm afraid of time. i'm afraid of traffic. i'm afraid of food. i'm afraid of hunger. i'm afraid of men. i'm afraid of people. i'm afraid of how everything feels like a trap. i'm afraid of feeling dead. i'm afraid of never feeling alive again. i'm afraid i am a bad person. i'm afraid i am not capable of love. i'm afraid i am not capable of being loved. i'm afraid i have lost something i can never get back. i'm afraid that there are people that i have slept with that i do not care about, that do not care about me. i'm afraid that there are people that i love that do not love me. i'm afraid that i will never be happy. i'm afraid that this will never stop.

all. the way. down.

cracks.

2010-10-10T20:13:00.003-06:00

spraining my elbow turned out to be a big deal. it was a big week. i was astounded both by people's kindness and by people's complete lack of kindness. my mom called me. my niece called me. naomi called me. marisa and i met for lunch, twice. carrie wrote to say "we love you!" and my dad wrote to ask if there was anything that he could do. he offered me some fairly adorable and fatherly advice on anti-inflammatory pain relievers and links to different types of elbow supports.

i got 2 job offers this week and one job turn down. i cried my eyes out, on more than one occasion. i watched annie the movie and realized that that movie was perhaps what began my fascination with fdr. i ate a cheeseburger, 2 burritos, several popsicles and a whole lot of cookies. i did not exercise for an entire week, for the first time in more years than i can recall. i laid awake nights worrying, thinking about how many years i have been laying awake with this worry. i saw some old co-workers and spent a lot of time thinking about my life and loves (past tense) here in san francisco. i realize how buried i feel, lost under a lot of rubble. it's hard to see a way out when i get underneath these things. i feel like i have lost myself. i reach into the past, for memories to prop myself up on. i feel very fragmented and i'm looking for myself in the people that i love, that i used to love, reaching for it because i am lost.

this morning naomi said to me, "those thoughts can feel so definite. but they're not real. it's not real." it is incredible to feel so completely lost, dead lost, and to have a conversation with someone and realize that you are alive. it's not just that i am loved, but there are people who are rooting for me. who believe in me enough to call me on the phone and say, i know you're lost right now, but you're not that far off track, and i believe you can get back there and i'll wait for you. and i think you are remarkable.

tonight as i was listening to the giants game on the radio, and they were trailing the braves by a run in the 9th inning, i started to write a text message to my dad that said, "what a bummer." as i was waiting for the inning to end and the game to be over to send the message, suddenly the giants came from behind and scored 2 runs. john miller said, "i just got a text message from my daughter that said, 'i had no idea being a baseball fan was so stressful.'" and then mike krukow said, "i just got a text message from my daughter that said, 'omg omg omg omg omg omg'" the giants won. i changed my text message to my dad to, "WOW."

being a baseball fan is stressful. but we do it. we go every season and we hoot and holler and curse and cheer and we sit and listen faithfully, through the bad weather and the flukes and the miracles and the upsets and the wins and the losses and the comebacks, because it's worth it.

and that's just it, isn't it? i love baseball. and i love my friends. and i love my family. and i love my loves. and i think you are remarkable.

remembered dream june 2006.

2010-10-10T08:06:00.004-06:00

standing in soumeya's room listening to belle and sebastian records on an old time phonograph she had her jeans rolled up and striped tube socks "zane style" i smiled and a tear rolled down my cheek and i watched as it hit the floor, my legs were ankle deep in water my tears hit the water with a "dollop."

"don't worry" she said "it's just the tide."

october 9 2010

2010-10-09T13:00:00.000-06:00

i can't do this anymore.

no,

really.

self-portrait.

2010-10-09T09:55:00.001-06:00

Someone's got it in for me, they're planting stories in the press
Whoever it is I wish they'd cut it out but when they will I can only guess.
They say I shot a man named Gray and took his wife to Italy,
She inherited a million bucks and when she died it came to me.
I can't help it if I'm lucky.

People see me all the time and they just can't remember how to act
Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts.
Even you, yesterday you had to ask me where it was at,
I couldn't believe after all these years, you didn't know me any better than that
Sweet lady.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth,
Blowing down the backroads headin' south.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

i threw the i-ching yesterday it said there'd be some thunder at the well
i haven't tasted peace and quiet for so long it seems like living hell
there's a lone soldier on the heal watching falling rain drops pour
you'd never know it to look at him
at the final shot he won the war
after losing every battle.

I ran into the fortune-teller, who said beware of lightning that might strike
I haven't known peace and quiet for so long I can't remember what it's like.
There's a lone soldier on the cross, smoke pourin' out of a boxcar door,
You didn't know it, you didn't think it could be done, in the final end he won the war
After losin' every battle.

i woke up on the roadside, daydreamin bout the way things really are
hoof beats pounding in my head at breakneck speed and makin me see stars

I woke up on the roadside, daydreamin' 'bout the way things sometimes are
Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin' me see stars.
You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies.
One day you'll be in the ditch, flies buzzin' around your eyes,
Blood on your saddle.

Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb,
Blowing through the curtains in your room.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

It was gravity which pulled us down and destiny which broke us apart
You tamed the lion in my cage but it just wasn't enough to change my heart.
Now everything's a little upside down, as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped,
What's good is bad, what's bad is good, you'll find out when you reach the top
You're on the bottom.

i noticed at the ceremony that you left your bags behind
the driver came in after you left he gave 'em all to me and then he resigned
the priest wore black on the seventh day and waltzed around while the building burned
you didn't trust me for a minute babe
i've never known the spring to turn so quickly into autumn

I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind
I can't remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed, your eyes
don't look into mine.
The priest wore black on the seventh day and sat stone-faced while the building
burned.
I waited for you on the running boards, near the cypress trees, while the springtime
turned Slowly into autumn.

idiot wind
blowing every time you move your jaw
from the grand coulee dam to the mardi gras
idiot wind blowing every time you move your teeth
you an idiot babe
it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

Idiot wind, blowing like a circle around my skull,
From the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

we pushed each other a little too far
and one day it just turned into a ragin' storm
a houndog bayed beyond your trees as i was packin up my uniform
i figured i'd lost you anyway. why go on, what's the use?
in order to get in a word with you i'd have to come up with some excuse
it just struck me kinda funny

I can't feel you anymore, I can't even touch the books you've read
Every time I crawl past your door, I been wishin' I was somebody else instead.
Down the highway, down the tracks, down the road to ecstasy,
I followed you beneath the stars, hounded by your memory
And all your ragin' glory.

i been double crossed too much
at times i think i've almost lost my mind
lady killers load dice on me behind my back while imitators steal me blind
you close your eyes and part your lips and slip your fingers from your glove
you can have the best there is, but it's gonna cost you all your love
you won't get it for money

I been double-crossed now for the very last time and now I'm finally free,
I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me.
You'll never know the hurt I suffered nor the pain I rise above,
And I'll never know the same about you, your holiness or your kind of love,
And it makes me feel so sorry.

Idiot wind, blowing through the buttons of our coats,
Blowing through the letters that we wrote.
Idiot wind, blowing through the dust upon our shelves,
We're idiots, babe.
It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves.

lince the king of ska.

2010-10-08T07:26:00.000-06:00

vengeance is sleeping.

2010-10-06T07:16:00.000-06:00

I DID NOT KNOW WHAT A BRUTE I WAS
I DIPPED MY CIGARETTE AND RODE THE BUS
VENGEANCE BUILT ME HASTILY

AND I DRAGGED THE CLANGING NOTION I WAS NOBODY, NOBODY... NOBODY
ALL I HAD WAS MY INTENTION
AND MY LOVE INVENTED ALL OF YOU

OH, LOOK WHAT THOUGHTS CAN DO
WHAT THOUGHTS CAN DO

IF BY NOW YOU ARE NOT DEAD AND BURIED
YOU ARE MOST CERTIFIABLY MARRIED, OH MARRIED

I'M SURE YOU'RE SLEEPING SOUND
WITH THE MISTRESS OF THE HOURS
THE HOURS THAT GRIND YOUR LIFE TO DUST
YOUR EASY LOVES YOU KEEP LIKE PETS
DENIED THEM YOU ARE POWERLESS

WHATEVER KEEPS YOU SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT

I'M NOT THE MAN YOU THOUGHT I WAS

MY LOVE HAS NEVER LIVED INDOORS
I'VE HAD TO DRAG IT HOME BY FORCE
HIRED HOUNDS AT BOTH MY WRISTS
DAMP AND BRUISED BY STRANGERS KISSES ON MY LIPS
BUT YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I STILL MISS

YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I STILL MISS

AND IT'S RUTHLESS THAT IT COMES AS NO SURPRISE

I'M NOT THE MAN YOU THINK I AM

(neko case)

greetings from hell.

2010-10-04T08:48:00.003-06:00

hi. i'm in hell.

i fell down yesterday. and i've taken worse falls in my career as an urban jogger. well, ones where more blood was involved, at least. but yesterday i fell super hard onto my left elbow. all 300 pounds of me crashed right down onto that elbow.

i'll preface this by saying i'm being a baby. it could be so, so much worse. i could have busted an ankle and been unable to walk (done that). i could have fallen onto my face and gotten a concussion (which i've actually done before). i could have slammed into a wall and ended up with a big fat shiner (done that too). i could have fallen into one of those trash elevators in the sidewalk (that'd be new). or broken an actual bone (that'd be something new too).

i sat there on the ground and i felt this incredible panic. and then the questions: what if i can't get up? how will i make it home? what if i can't take care of myself? what if the giants don't make it to the playoffs? will there ever be a boy born who can swim faster than a shark? it's sort of my biggest fear, not being able to take care of myself.

but here i am, i can't raise my arm above shoulder height. i have giant bruises on my thigh and knee. my arm is so swollen that it won't fit into any of my sleeves. yesterday i was so freaked out and panicked that i did the most comforting thing i could think of, i went to the mall. i wandered around aimlessly and after a few hours had passed i realized that i was not exactly coherent. i realized this when a sales woman tried to get into a conversation with me and mid sentence i just turned and walked out of the store.

this morning i got up and spent about 2 hours trying to get ready for work. things like washing my hair and putting on a bra are impossible. i walked out of my apartment and got half way down the stairs and realized that my skirt was falling off because i wasn't able to fasten it. additionally i felt like i was going to throw up. so i went back up to my apartment and called in sick.

i think that physical illness happens for a reason. as we all know, i have an eating disorder. i'm working on it. the eating part has gotten better. but i must admit, i still work out twice a day. things at work have once again escalated to a pretty catastrophic level. so suddenly i find myself unable to work out, and unable to work.

as much as i isolate myself, near death experiences (*cough*) like this force me to admit that i need other people. i keep thinking about all of the shit that i put off this weekend because of laziness. laundry, for example. how in the hell am i going to haul clothes to a laundromat with one arm? how am i going to wash the dishes? how am i going to do my job? fuck.

i've been crying a lot, like a big baby. i wish my mama would make me a grilled cheese sammy.

blargh.

giants clinch!

2010-10-02T09:18:00.009-06:00

unless i get some divine break, i went to my last giants game of this fantastic season on friday night. the game was...weird. the giants played terribly. bunch of nervous nellies, me thinks. but apart from that it was a pretty fucking incredible night. so, i'm gonna blog about it.

pops got us two seats right behind home plate this time. i mean, right behind it. row d. just to the left of it, right behind the batters box, so we had the perfect angle to see a pitch coming. we got there early as shit, because that's what we do. couple of early birds. we like to watch batting practice. last night was the 30th anniversary of the willie mac award for the giants. because of this, they brought back a whole gaggle of former giants who were past years recipiants of the award. the willie mac award is an award voted on by the players and coaches and fans for the sort of...good guy of the team. "leadership" and "spirit" and "consistency." basically, everybody's bud.

john miller was announcing the former players as they came out onto the field. when they called former giants pitcher and current giants broadcaster mike krukow, and he started to walk out onto the field, the place just lit up. everybody went nuts. standing o for kruk, for days. half way down the field he had tears in his eyes, and as for me, i was sobbing. like a little baby.

then they get to the 2000's era players. and they call out jt snow, who is not only my all time favorite giant, but my all time favorite baseball player. further sobbing. my dad looks over at me and i says to him, "don't look at me."

then they call jeff kent. and the sight of his stupid face and his stupid tiny mustache and his stupid cop haircut makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. and he trots out and waives and i holler, "you're a bum!"

and then they call out david bell, a player who always looked like he was in the late stages of the most epic hangover ever, where it's sort of wearing off and you have a crushing headache and you're all clammy and you probably threw up at some point during the night but now you just sort of have gut rot. david bell looks like he needs a drink. he also has this sort of pale, palid, old timey look to him. like he's disappearing. additionally he always looks just really fucking sad. i nicknamed him "bellancholy" and the rest of the 2002/03 giants "the infinite sadness." and he comes out and he looks fucking miserable and pale and he goes and stands next to snow and kent and the thing of it is, he just sort of faded away there. when it was all over i went, "oh yeah, d. bell was there too. where did he go?"

then willie mccovey comes up to speak and he's in a wheel chair, and he gets this enormous grin on his face and he says, "i'm just so happy to be back at the ballpark." and i just lost it. further sobbing.

then jt snow and mike krukow threw out the first pitch. during the game i looked up, directly across the field at this box and snow is standing up there watching the game. and they put the cameras up there, and snow's standing there in this super cute grey dickies jacket with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the game. and fucking kent is standing there totally facing jt, and he's just flapping his hands, talking a mile a minute, not even aware of the game. and he's wearing a fucking brand new giants jacket. and i'm sitting there going, "take it off! right now! take that fucking jacket off!"

the padres are sick. and dad and i sit there in our matching giants hoodies with our bags of peanuts, nervously cracking shells. and dad says, "what do you think jess?" and i say, "i'm afraid that the padres are better than us." and david eckstein is playing for the padres this year. and every time i see his creepy little face i think back to when the giants were in the world series against the angels and that little fucker was killing us. and i get so mad that i get the urge to spit. and former giant yorvit torrealba is the catcher for the padres. and i can't hate on him. but there's this group of smart asses sitting behind me. and they call eckstein "ach-shteen!" and this kid behind me goes, "doesn't he just look like a date rapist? or at least some dude that would just not go away. 'hey bud, wanna hang out? whatcha doin? wanna hang out?'"

and then torrealba gets up to bat and they start heckling the fuck out of him. he keeps calling time, and they shout, "what- you don't know the park?" and then one of them goes, "what's a matter torrealba? you gonna cry about it?" and i think, "he's very sensitive, he's a cancer!" they also know the name of the umpire, which is decidedly hilarious, because they keep shouting his name and saying, "i know where you live!" and the ump looks like he is sort of sweating it.

then there is this thing where they show a clip of barry zito playing one of his favorite songs on the guitar, and you have to guess the song, and it's "jack and diane" by the coug. and i think, zito may be one of the most hated men in san francisco after saturday's game, maybe i actually could be his girlfriend. if nobody else wants him, i'll take him. i could deal with that. wait, i think his actual girlfriend is alyssa milano. she's way hotter than me. nevermind.

as for the game, it was sloppy. saturday's game was more of the same. the giants looked like shit. but you know what, it wouldn't be the giants if it didn't break your heart. that's just how they roll. to quote kruk: "what, did ya think it was gonna be easy?"

today, my boys finally did it. the giants are the national league champs for the first time in 7 years. how bummed am i that i wasn't at the game today? pretty bummed. i kinda feel like the only good thing about moving back to sf this year was this baseball season. what i love about this team is they got heart. there's no stars. no divas. working class heroes.

thursday night, we'll start the playoffs against the braves. this will mark the first braves game ever where i will not be doing the tomahawk chop.

this little cutie will be pitching:

go giants!

the good son.

2010-10-01T11:13:00.004-06:00

let's talk about nick cave.

yes let's!

i recently decided to go back and listen to a pivotal nick cave record: the good son. this record, along with several other cave records, were reissued this year with documentary dvds to accompany them. i've scoured the interwebs in search of these documentaries, but could only find clips. i'll be asking santy clause for these when i sit on his lap this year, but till then i just can't fork over the $$ for copies of c/ds that i already have. because i do, i already have these albums on c/d.

what got me to listen to it again was thinking about the good son in terms of context. i'm an old bag in most regards, but when it comes to cave i'm a widdle baby. i never even heard of the dude until i met my super way cool friend naomi when i was just about 18. and i didn't really get into him until the boatman's call, which many people consider his swan song in a lot of ways, the end of the true greatness that was nick cave. one time i read an interview with evan rachel wood (who broke marilyn manson's heart, so, looks like he's gonna break her heart shaped glasses!) and she was like, "i've been into david bowie since i was 5." she was born in 1987. so, she's been into bowie since earthling came out. she totally remembers when hours... was released. that's just how street she is. so when i tell you i've been into nick cave since boatman's call came out, i feel like a dick. i'm really sorry you guys.

my point here (i have one!...?) is that when you step into an "artist"'s "discography" late in the game, it's sort of a different thing than if you follow along over the years. for people who were into cave say, with the birthday party, and then with the bad seeds through from her to eternity up to tender prey, the evolution was clear. and then the good son came along and sort of blew people's minds, not in a good way. a lot of people hated this record. goth dudes everywhere were putting cigarettes out on their arms and putting on extra black eyeliner the day this record dropped.

for me (the asshole who didn't get into nick cave until boatman's call), this record was just not ever one that really drew me in. but in the grand scheme, big picture, while maybe this was not cave's finest hour, this record is important. material wise it's incredible. the ship song, the weeping song, lament, the hammer song, lucy, the title track. all fantastic. the production is what makes it sound a tiny bit odd, there's a little cheesiness to it if only because it was a record made in 1990.

personally i have always skipped the opening track, foi na cruz. always been a skipper for me. but i sat down and listened to every song on this record, start to finish all the way through. foi na cruz! after tender prey, to make this song the opening track to the new nick cave record...pure balls. i mean, to start a record with the bad seeds singing softly in unison, a brazilian protestant hymn over accoustic guitars, in spanish...sort of shocking. and then on to the title track. the good son starts out with acoustic guitars, hand claps, and southern baptist choir style singing. once i got to the build and then the strings coming in on the chorus i says to myself, i says, "oh shit. that's it!" the audible moment where everything changed for cave. in that moment i heard everything that followed, that moment was when the tide turned, the direction changed. wow.

this record is where mick harvey really got to show his chops. string arrangements, percussion, layered guitars, that cinematic spaghetti western airyness is emerging here. shortly after recording the good son harvey started producing another artist for the first time, the robert forster record danger in the past. that record is a very high lonesome, townes van zandt style record. one can see how the bad seeds' next record, henry's dream began to take shape.

sometimes i think about bands that i'm really into that i've never seen live. when a musician is a force like nick cave, what he does live is probably more necessary than what he does on records. when i listen to cave records i think about hearing them without what i know, i think about what it sounded like before i had experienced his live show. that sounds like religous fervor and it ain't far off. cave is a god amongst performers. he wines you, he dines you, he woos you, he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, he gently undoes the buttons and pulls at the laces. then, he rips your clothes off. and then he fucks you. and fucks you. and fucks you. he pulls your hair. he bites your neck. he pushes you around. he kicks you out of bed. and then, he chases after you & lulls you back and holds you tenderly. in summation: the nick cave live show is hot sex.

one of the many things that i was so knocked out by the first time that i saw him was his piano playing. he really started showing that off on the good son. there's also a lot of sort of hinting at the irish border ballad type material that he would perfect on the next record: henry's dream. what i love about the good son is that this is the record that solidified cave's status as a crooner. these are love songs. and calling them love songs doesn't do them justice. i mean, i dare ya to find a more perfect love song than the ship song. what nick cave knows about romance, well, it's the stuff of great men.

when i first moved to the city, a hundred years ago, i used to frequent a real shithole of a bar called the lucky 13. my friend suze and i were always there. there was a barback that worked there called craig. he was ice cold. suze and i are two leos, we charm the actual pants off of everybody, so when we encounter a stone cold motherfucker, we make it our business to harass them until they love us. craig was impervious to our charms. the only information we could get out of him was that he was a cancer. after a few months we sorta gave up on cancer craig & took to mocking him for his astrological weaknesses. he's a cancer, he can't talk to girls, he's too sensitive. or: he can't stop and talk, he's got to go cry in the bathroom. you get the idea.

one night i found myself outside while cancer craig was on a smoke break. the details are hazy because a. i was bombed and b. i was 12. but somehow cancer craig and i got into a heated argument about nick cave. this was when no more shall we part was the current nick cave record. cancer craig was mouthing off about how the boatman's call was the last great nick cave record and i was playing defense. i feel a sense of mortification as i recall actually singing a few lines to oh my lord to illustrate my point. apparently my drunken off key rant wasn't totally lacking charm because before i realized it ol' stonewall's tongue was in my mouth. he frenched me. then he stood back, said, "i'm sorry, but i just had to do that." and he walked back inside the bar. i tell you this story, dear reader, because THAT'S WHAT NICK CAVE DOES. nick cave is cupid. imagine nick cave in a little diaper, with a little bow & arrow and wings, whispering in your ear, "oi, mate! kiss that drunken teenager!"

romance!
the end.

and with breath that is baited...

2010-10-01T11:02:00.002-06:00

dad and i head to the park for our last game of the season.

excerpts from love letters (part 2)

2010-09-25T07:47:00.022-06:00

you came to me in waves. crashing. retreating. i spoke to you like i've never spoken to anyone. you forced something out of me. because there was no other way to communicate my feelings. nothing less immediate. it's made me realize how much is unspoken between people. how much is carried through bodies, through the physical. when i think of what was lost on distance, the hours spent staring at an image instead of at your face...i am dumbfounded... imagining the energy of your physical presence leaves me breathless. i can taste it. i sense you but it's only psychically, a flash, one percent. i have known such a tiny portion of you. we peeled off layers of ourselves, facets, perversions, our most masculine and most feminine selves. we were afforded the freedom of anonymity. no blush of a cheek or social consequence. there were no veils or curtains between us because of this. in one way it was the truest. in one way there were no games. in another way, it was the most false. in another way, it was only a game. our most direct and most ambiguous. the physical carries attraction, it holds it up, a channel, a frequency hums between two people, their bodies are the radios, singing to one another. harmonizing. we had no in between. no smiles or long looks, no leaning into each other, no waves across crowded streets. no lull. nothing to carry us. so that every encounter was carnal desire. devour. devour. and then silence. pale static.

mystified was the word you used... and so it was. i found you enigmatic and entitled and brash and narcissistic and impossible. and, you went straight to my heart. i adore you, completely. all of it. and i don't know what you want. if you had asked i would've been there in a heartbeat, that's how it was, but you never did. you never said it. you only said no. no. no. no. no. YES.

and your jealousy! the absurdity, the audacity of it. and yet correct, in that i belonged to you. but ridiculous for that same reason. you had nothing to be jealous of. no one else held a candle, the enormity of you eclipsed everything else, blocked out the sun. and that, too, is ridiculous. i do not belong to you, i never did, and you are so completely bound to another. who am i? nothing, no one. paper. trash. sugary pink bubblegum stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

i don't know what you want. i never knew. i only ever tried to guess, to be some version of it that you could hold on to. but it's not that way. tiny specs. tiny, tiny diamonds. i wanted all of you. i am the fool, dangling from the ledge. my heart chose you. to see the world through your eyes, to see myself through your eyes, it was intoxicating and familiar as if in a dream. i felt i knew you, immediately. here is a man that i could love. and yet...here is a man that i can not love.

it was out of the question. it is out of the question. when it builds in me, when i summon you and i'm with you in my mind it is real. we build worlds. and they come crashing down and i feel insane. i feel that it's some sort of madness, this thing between us. you said i was crazy and you were right: i'm crazy about you. you play these chords in me, these old chords, and i dance for you. and i don't know what you want. i'm nothing to you or i'm a shiny coin in your pocket. it's not fair of me to make demands, it's not fair of me to want anything from you, to want anything to do with you. without the imagined world between us, without the dream, it's nothing. it's less than nothing. there is nothing. and i'm a fool. you build walls. portions. it's enough for you, i suppose. maybe you have no choice. i stand outside and i look through at you and am consumed by it. the longing, with you, the hunger. i've never felt anything like it. but i know i'm never getting in. and i stand back and i look at what i've made from nothing, nothing, and i'm a fool. infatuation. a drug.

you want your cake, and you want to eat it and you want it when you want it and you don't when you don't. and why is that so hard to understand? because i want more. you know that, you fucking know it. know thyself. and i know, i know that i am not capable of one percent, ten percent. i want it all. and i never knew what you wanted, not really. i can't see anything ahead of this. it feels like attack and defense, fuck and forget. and i can't forget. i don't forget. i won't be one of your fans, there are plenty of them hanging on your every word, you don't need me to stoke the fire. you don't need me for anything. but that's what you want, i suppose, fanned flames and nothing more. you want the sun on your face you want me to be cake! don't think i take you lightly, i take nothing lightly. least of all you. and maybe that's it, maybe you do take me lightly. and why shouldn't you? nothing is real, in this way and it makes me feel crazy.

but it's my fault, i chose you. so it's all bullshit and i can not, i do not, i will not, i never have really blamed you. i knew from the beginning it never would be and never could be and i fucking did it anyway. i'm just as unavailable as you are, in my way. if i've cut you it was only insecure defense, and self-deprecating. don't think i'm being superior, i never have been, not in my entire life.

a promise made to myself: i don't have to hate you just because i don't get to love you.

it's a promise i intend to keep. i won't hate you. i can't hate you. don't ask me to. because you are, it's what you're doing, it's what we both do. in fact i'm doing it now, right now, writing this. we are more alike than we are not. we'll piss on something lovely just to get the sweet taste out of our mouths.

if you think i don't want you anymore, you're wrong. if you think some part of me doesn't desire you completely, you're wrong. desire. desire is not far from desperation and you don't know a thing. we don't know each other. not at all. and yet more than some ever will and it's too confusing. it's not real. say it's not real. say nothing at all. either way i'll break.

i haven't known how to let go of it. the thought of you draws me in completely. there are parts of me that are yours alone. but you don't want to hear it. i don't think you ever have. i've never known how to reach you, to settle you or to sway you. when you come it's with a burning command, and when you go you take the lights with you.

you said it was projection and it's true. and that breaks my heart a little. you've broken my heart from the minute i saw you. because in that moment i knew i could love you and i don't get to love you. and these worlds we build, they're dangerous. there's little else going for me, you think there's something of the seductress, the femme fatale in me but you're wrong. it's only for you i became any version of these things. you think too much of me. and not enough. i don't need the burning of a thousand eyes on me. only ever one. in a sea of faces i can only make out one. and that's the difference between you and i.

oh i've repelled you. scared you off for sure. call me crazy and run for your life. if it's what you need, take it and do, run. regret nothing. i never will. in some way, i became a woman through you. my gratitude along with my affection for you is unwavering. if it's not real i don't care, not really. if you saw yourself in some way, one glimpse of what i see of you, then my heart is content. what you capture, what you convey, is fucking fantastic. your eye is astounding, your images hiss and swell with everything lovely and gory, like the stench and sweat of lovers entwined. you do what so many fail to do: you convey yourself through an image. your work is you. no one else. you have a voice and you use it without speaking. you are a true original. you're larger than a hundred men i have known, you are a force. you have true swagger. and everything animal and riotous and savage drips from your fingers. you are the archetypal beast, with all of your wild grace. your beauty is unmatched. know that you have possessed me. know that if i go from you it's never because i think less of you, desire less of you, it's only because i take it too much to heart. know that i hold you, even if it's only a dream, a facet, my own version of you, know that i hold you dearly.

this is how we learn.

2010-09-24T20:50:00.000-06:00

Happy Birthday, Boss.

2010-09-23T11:16:00.005-06:00

today is bruce springsteen's 61st birthday. boss day should be a national holiday in my book, but this year is particularly sweet for me.

(ap) Columbia announced that it will be releasing The Promise: The Darkness on the Edge of Town Story on November 16th. The six-disc package (three CDs and three DVDs) will include a remastered version of Darkness on the Edge of Town, two CDs of 21 unreleased songs, two DVDs of live performances and a copy of The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town, a documentary on the making of the album being shown on HBO in October.

i had this friend michelle growing up who was a christian, and she used to talk about how no matter what she did or where she went, she knew that god (or "jesus") was always watching her. i used to think that was the craziest thing i ever heard. i remember telling her that i couldn't really comprehend that. i always felt like the concept of god was too big, and i was too small. that's how i feel about bruce springsteen. i feel like springsteen is god. and 2 live dvds, a fucking documentary about the making of and 21 unreleased songs from darkness on the edge of town is too big. i'm not worthy. the sheer awesomeness of it is going to make my actual heart actually explode inside of my actual chest.

last week the film premiered at the toronto film festival and the boss sat down with edward norton and talked about it. my brain sort of can't comprehend it. it's too much. i'm too small! i realized this when simply the sight of this photo right here made me well up with tears:

by the time i read this (from karen bliss' rolling stone article):
Four songs stood out for having love and relationships as their topics — one theme you won’t find on the Darkness album. On the light, rollicking “Gotta Get That Feeling,” Springsteen sings, “Hey girl, won’t you come out tonight?” There’s also “Ain’t Good Enough For You” (“you criticize about me endlessly/Logic defies how you got stuck with me”); “Someday (We’ll Be Together),” which is a romantic ballad with a bit of a ‘50s feel; and “Talk To Me,” about a guy pining for a girl whose “dad won’t ever let me in.” As the documentary makes evident, Springsteen ruthlessly discarded songs from the extensive recording sessions for Darkness. In the film, Springsteen says, “I felt like I didn’t know how to write [love] songs at that time.”

by the time i read this, the only thought i had was,
"i think i just peed my pants."

thanks, boss.

here's a lil' mixtape of songs that i enjoy.

2010-09-23T10:10:00.005-06:00

Side A:
1. White Trash, 2nd Generation (Bad Religion) Dedicated to Dancing with the Stars star Bristol Palin.

2. Hang on to your Ego (Beach Boys) That piano! This song was originally recorded for Pet Sounds but rumour has it that Mike Love insisted that the lyrics be changed because he thought it was a druggy song. The lyrics were changed to "I Know There's an Answer" and this version was scrapped. Whatever Mike Love, this version rips! Is Mike Love still alive?

3. Human Hands (Elvis Costello) It's kind of a perfect song.

4. Baby What You Want Me to Do- Live 1963 (Etta James) It's almost a toss up between this version and Elvis Presley's from the '68 Comeback Special, but please. Etta takes it!

5. I Spy (Pulp) Another scorcher from Jarvis Cocker, everybody's favorite pervert. He specializes in revenge! This one's for you, baby.

6. Mambo Sun (T. Rex) Up there with the best track one/side ones everrrrr. The lyric, "Girl you're good" makes me happy.

7. You Just Haven't Earned it Yet Baby (The Smiths) This my favorite Smiths song. DB makes a little reference to it on Pobody's Nerfect too, which makes me somehow love it a little more.

Side B:
1. A Forest (The Cure) Simon Gallup is still one of the coolest bass players there ever were.

2. Mystify (INXS) Hands down my fave INXS song, out of the, like, two INXS songs that I like.

3. It's Raining (Irma Thomas) She's a soul singer for real, but this is kinda my favorite girl group style song ever. Her voice is actually crazy.

4. To Love Somebody (Nina Simone) She's a jazz singer for real, but this is kinda my other favorite girl group style song ever. I put the version with Joe Strummer saying "Let Nina Simone rule the world!" at the beginning on pretty much every mix tape I make.

5. You Gotta Stand for Something (Coug). Aside from the title track, this my fave song on Scarecrow. "I saw Miss America in a girly magazine. I betcha saw that too."

6. Streets of Fire (Springsteen) Long as I live, this song will always conjure the memory of driving my ex-boyfriend to work at sunrise, still half asleep with half closed eyes, looking over and seeing him light up a cigarette and the sun coming up and reflecting off of his blonde eyelashes and the little dried veil of tears hardened from sleep around his eyes, lighting the gold strands in his beard. Every time it got to the end he would let out a sigh, reach up and start this song over again.

7. The Undoing (Interpol) I kind of really can't stop listening to this song. It's driving me crazy. The line, "I al-ways thought you had great style." kills me. I read this incredible interpretation some dude wrote, that the song is Lucifer talking to God. The Spanish translates to something like, "I've lost, I've come undone. I lose control, in the undoing... victory does not compare to utter defeat."

redemption.

2010-09-22T12:09:00.004-06:00

i want to see more deserts. the desert is homeland. desert is my chosen terrain.
i want to go to spain. seville. barcelona. madrid. all of the above.
i want to go to budapest.
i want to go to columbia.

i want to go to moscow.

i want to go to cuba.
i want to go to montreal.
i want to go to copper canyon in mexico.
i want to see the sea of cortez. what a killer.
i want to take the most epic fucking road trip through the u.s. this time northern route. through nevada, utah, montana, wyoming, south dakota, iowa, illinois, tennessee (sweet home), north carolina, virginia, maryland, penn, new jersey, new york, vermont, new hampshire, maine! aside from nevada, tennessee, new hampshire & maine, those are all states i've never been to. holy cow!
i want to fall in love.
i want to be someone's girl.
i want movie theater make outs and record release listening parties for 2 and high fives at ball games and a million laughs.
i want to be the keeper of somebody's stories.
i want to know someone for the rest of their life.
i want to love the way their face changes with age.
i want to see all of their fashion choices over the years.
i want to champion someone's dreams.
i want to settle someone's restlessness.
i want to be an accomplice and a co-conspirator and a sounding board.
i want to get married again and i want to mean it this time.
i want to have babies.
i want to sing praises.
i want to nurture.
i want to cultivate.
i want to harvest.
i want to live in my house in grass valley and raise them right there.
i want to plant lettuce. tomatoes. squash. peonies in winter and dahlias in summer. roses. mums. lavender. wax flowers. honeysuckle!
i want four seasons.
i want to be in this skin. no matter!
i want to be amazed by my own body. instead of repelled. instead of confused. instead of frustrated.
i want to know that staying is worth it. i want to know it in my blood and my bones and my heart.
i want to be forgiven.
i want to be one of those women that knows about medicinal properties of herbs and rewiring a chandelier.
i want to tend to my trees.
i want to strip floors and paint walls and talk to my dad about roofing and electrical "stuff".
i want to build a family.
i want tiny legs jumping into piles of leaves.
i want little hands in mittens.
i want teeny sunglasses and round bellys protruding from little girl bikinis.
i want rainy days baking pies.
i want to make valentines and christmas cookies and halloween costumes.
i want to read bedtime stories and push swings and throw a softball around.
i want to oil mits and lace shoes and zip up coats.
i want ballet lessons and t-ball and loose teeth and pumpkin carving.
i want to be there to walk the dog and fold the laundry and watch the news with my dad as he gets old.
i want to stop by marisa's parents house to see marisa and steve on christmas.
i want to be the person they call when carrie's kid needs to picked up from school.
i want to know that what i make is good enough simply because i made it with these hands.
i want to talk to my mom about deer resistant plants and button holes and pattern cams.
i want my neice and nephew to have cousins.
i want to say, "come on up to the house!"
i want to be supported.
i want to take care of business.
i want to show up. every day.
i want a hundred new meanings for the word romance.
i want a little tenderness tried.
i want a small life ten times larger than i ever dreamed.
i want it all.

the tusked elephant and the tuesday lion.

2010-09-21T16:57:00.003-06:00

sometimes i hear or read or see something that is like a psychic electric shock treatment. a jolt to my creative consciousness. and i remember who i am. and i think, "what the fuck am i doing?" and i feel like there's a fucking lot that i need to experience.

myanmar is a place that i've thought a lot about in recent years. i just had the fantastic experience of reading this piece from a tour journal about yangon by alexei perry. i was brought to tears by it. it's a piece written without any political commentary, yet it conveys a whole hell of a lot.

it's one of the best things that i have read in a long time.

http://handsomefurs.com/yangon/

splooge!

2010-09-20T20:31:00.001-06:00

list of ultimate dream jobs.

2010-09-20T16:28:00.003-06:00

1. staff writer for elle magazine. hello?!

2. fashion archivist for the new york public library. i love research. i love fashion. i love nostalgia. i love organization. i love libraries. i'd love to be the keeper of all of the slides and articles and sketches and wear glasses and tight sweaters and shush fashion students all day. that'd rip.

3. stay at home mom. i am really, really good wife. i can cook, balance a checkbook, i'm super tidy, i'm a dilligent laundress, and i have a lot of sexy underthings. knock me up!

4. purveyor of used clothing, nevada city california. i'd just love to furnish cute outfits for the good people of nevada county. carrie?!

5. full time travel geek. i speak no languages. i have no money. but i've got heart! i would love to take this show on the road.

6. one of marc jacobs' minions. i will toast bagels, i will pick up dry cleaning, i will boss around little cambodian seamstresses. additionally i give really good neck messages, and my hand jobs are outstanding!

7. back up singer for stevie nicks. i saw her in las vegas a few years ago and she had a new, super young backup singer and i was so bummed that it wasn't me! granted, i can't sing. but stevie nicks could just turn the volume off and let me lip synch along and point at her a lot. i have a lot of experience, i've been doing it alone in my bedroom for about 28 years.

8. costume mistress for handsome furs. just think of it! traveling around with dan and alexei and helping them put on (and take off! wink wink) special outfits. oh!

9. greenhouse lady. i worked at a flower shop once and it was one of the worst jobs i ever had. people are psychotic about flowers. they tend to take all of their rage out on poor, seriously underpaid flower shop girls when their parents die and they are stressed out about funerals. i used to hide out in the greenhouse all the time and that part of it was my favorite job ever. it's all warm and mossy and full of oxygen. plants rip.

10. scorekeeper for the mlb. i really hope that some day i will be the old lady sitting at every game with a short pencil and a little card, taking notes on every play. that's my dream for retirement.

fashion week comes to a close.

2010-09-20T11:33:00.011-06:00

fashion week is over. *sigh*
here are my fave raves from part two.

zac posen:

marchesa! so beyond brilliant:

marc by marc jacobs:

2nd half favorite collection goes to imitation:

bill blass:

alice & olivia:

happy spring!

desire.

2010-09-20T09:31:00.000-06:00

r-o-c-k in the u.s.a.

2010-09-19T18:06:00.010-06:00

1. jerry lee lewis- mean old man. great title. as for the record...look, this one's a big fat plea for cash. every song but two is jerry lee lewis and somebody real, real famous. and i get it. no shame in it, really. ol' jerry lee deserves a buck just as much as the next guy. the thing is though, at 74 jerry lee lewis can still sing. i saw jerry lee lewis a couple years back and he was insane, he's not even sorta lost his voice. so to see him doing all these songs with the original artists, sharing lead vocals is a little...it's a little bit of a bummer. i mean, hearing him do roll over beethoven with ringo starr and john fucking mayer, or you are my sunshine with sheryl crow makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. the only saving grace is that he gets some actual country singers who have a little bit of tact and know how to sing a duet. he does swinging doors with the hag and james burton. the incredibly gracious gillian welch proves once again what a class act she is and does please release me and i really don't want to know with the killer. and speaking of class acts, he does whiskey river with willie nelson and it's actually pretty good. however, most of the record just sounds like novelty act after novelty act- mick jagger doing a hammy off-key dead flowers and keith richards sounding, as ever, like he's trying not to nod off and occasionally chiming in on sweet virginia. then you have may the circle be unbroken with mavis staples, robbie robertson & nils lofgren- which i can assure you is exactly as boring as it sounds. then you've got a few numbers with "new country" stars and some "new metal" stars to try to really make sure all bases are covered and no potential buck is missed. jerry lee lewis doesn't need shelby lynne or tim mcgraw or fucking kid rock to carry a tune for him. too bad somebody couldn't see that and help him make a great record on his own. you know what i'd like to see? i'd like to see jerry lee lewis do a record of louvin brothers covers. jerry lee lewis does satan is real. too bad rick rubin is busy producing...uh...kid rock and fucking josh groban. i'm sorry for all the cussin', but i've had it!

2. interpol- interpol. so, i'm an interpol fan. hi. nice to meet you. i'm not ashamed of myself. i'm not afraid to admit it. took me a few years to come out, but i'm out now. after antics, i held my hands up, i'm a believer in interpol. this record's currently getting a lot of shit. i read one review that said, "3 1/2 years and this is it?!" ha. read a lot of reviews that say it's "more of the same." well, yeah. duh. what did you expect, interpol was gonna come out with an acoustic record? something heavily springsteen influenced, perhaps? please. this record sounds like interpol fucking should sound: like interpol. paul banks is a writer that i really relate to. and by that i mean, "fuck. why didn't i come up with that? i suck." paul banks is my age, we were born the same year. ha. i love using that one. whatever. i think his lyrics are phenomenal. paul banks has a really great sense of romance, he does the whole nick cave thing pretty flawlessly, and that's tricky. there's a fine line between swagger and arrogance, and it takes a certain amount of self-assurance, i mean you've gotta believe it when you're singing it, because it could easily come off preeeeetty gay. but paul banks gets that anything overtly romantic has to be served with stoicism, and he does that v v well. this record lyrically is pretty much right where i'm at internally, i can tell it's going to be a big record for this particular little season in hell. musically, it's interpol folks. they rely heavily on reverb and the guitar sound is nothing new. this record is carlos d's last stand as bass player, apparently he had a lot to do with orchestration. the piano is a knock out, and the drums sound fucking fantastic. the band self-produced and they did a pretty stellar job, the vocals are super layered and the songs are real textured. the closer, the undoing, features paul banks singing in spanish (which he speaks fluently, by the by) which sorta makes me cream my actual jeans. i dig. i dig interpol/interpol.

3. phosphorescent- pride. yeah, i downloaded this record. it's pretty...bonnie price billy. in fact, it's probably a record that bonnie price billy recorded one afternoon while doing his laundry and put out under a different name. i listen to this record and i think a few things: 1. is this bonnie price billy? 2. is this dude from nevada city? 3. did i just fall asleep? it's a pretty record. at death, a proclamation is fantastic. but that's about alls i can say about that.

4. john cougar mellencamp- scarecrow. yeah. no shit. i love this record. i mean, i really love this record. this record was ALL i heard the year it came out. my parents played the shit out of this record. the coug started recording this record the month that born in the u.s.a. came out. i think it's such a fantastic response in a weird way. the coug and bruce springsteen are 2 years apart in age, the same years, respectively, that my father and mother were born. i think it was such an interesting time for baby boomers, when they were in their 30's and having come out of this wild rebellion and the whole hippie thing and nam, and suddenly they were men and looking around at the country and thinking about where they came from. this record is about the midwest. the cover kills me, that fantastic black and white picture of the coug in jeans and a jean jacket with the collar turned up, leaning on a barbed wire fence. this record makes me cry like a little baby. damn it coug, you rip.

okay! if that ain't the biggest bag of randoms you ever did see, i don't know what is.

equinox.

2010-09-18T13:21:00.006-06:00

september 2005:

september 2006:

september 2007:

september 2008:

september 2009:

what have we learned?

a. i have AGED. rapidly.

b. i've lost my looks.

c. i peaked in 2007.

d. NEVER CUT YOUR HAIR.

Ay, by my life; And never did desire to see thee more....

2010-09-18T07:54:00.013-06:00

so, yesterday i did laundry. big deal in my life. typically i will buy new underwear before i will haul my shit to a laundromat. or i will just save it up until i go up to visit my parents. but yesterday i decided to do the deed.

i have clean sheets! these certain sheets i haven't used in years, i found them and my bed is small enough again to use them and it reminded me of many, many years ago. and it made me miss someone. and i dreamt of him and i woke up with this line in my head:

"Ay, by my life;
And never did desire to see thee more...."

and i couldn't remember what play it was from. so i looked it up, it's midsummer night's dream. lysander. and while i was looking up midsummer night's dream i saw the character puck and that made me think of the real world san francisco-- that dude puck. and i thought, i wonder what he's up to, he seems like the type of guy i would get mixed up with. i'm sorry to tell you that puck was recently in a car accident. i don't know if he's okay because i don't actually care enough to actually click on the link to read about it.

somehow it's fall. it just is. no warm weather for san francisco this year. somehow my body still knows the seasons, even thoughit's a blur here. fall makes me so nostalgic. i'm always amazed by my ability to recall things, people, places, times so clearly. i am really able to go back into something, to the feeling of it. i used to think that i go through life with this shield up and i don't experience anything except in memory. like i can't feel it until i am alone and i am thinking back over it. but i think it's just that i come up with my story of it. my story that i stick to. this is what happened. this is what it meant. this is what it's about. alone with my stories.

fall is always a big time of year for me. it's been 12 years since i met the man i would marry. 11 years since i took a road trip through new england and developed my wanderlust. 9 years since i first moved to san francisco. 5 years since i have been someone's girlfriend. 3 years since i admitted that i was an alcoholic (yet kept drinking). a year since i made the decision to go back to new mexico. i feel sad, i suppose. it's strange to look back on those major events in my life, those rites of passage. all of them were decisions that i knew would change my life radically. standing on the edge of them was intoxicating and terrifying. and of course none of them turned out the way i thought that they would.

i miss the desert very much, i miss the dream of it too. i feel very far from that kind of freedom.

oh. life.

mental health day!

2010-09-17T13:17:00.003-06:00

i called in sick today. first time i've done that. i'm always there and i'm always early, i never take time off to go to the doctor or whatever people do. today i called in sick. it's weird. it's weird and it's wonderful.

last night i downloaded a shit-ton of new music. illegally. i'll have more to say about that soon. today i did yoga. i did laundry. i bought a creme colored waist length rabbit fur coat at buffalo exchange. i admired a sales girl's tattoos. i read henry miller. i drove around listening to inxs. i thought seriously about leaving town. but i've decided to stay this weekend. i've decided to stay and write and read and paint and make collages and watch treasure of the sierra madre and the lady from shanghai and panic in needle park and listen to the first place giants play baseball on the radio. i've decided to take a shot at the sewing machine sitting in the corner of my room, staring at me. i've decided to stay here and listen to my neighbor stomp around above me.

hope y'all's weekend is grand.

...

2010-09-16T19:14:00.002-06:00

Henry:

I did not mean to burn you yesterday- I was lying as in a dream- and so dissolved I could not hear you rising- I clung to a prolongation of that moment. When I think of it now I feel a kind of pain to have burned you- say that you forgive me- it was unconscious.

I can't write to you, Henry, though I was awake last night telling you-all night- of that man I discovered yesterday...the man I sensed with my feelings the first moment- all the mountains of words, writings, quotations have sundered- I only know now the splendor, the blinding splendor of your room- and that unreal moment- how can a moment be at once so unreal and so warm- so warm.

There is so much you want to know. I remember your phrase: "Only whores understand me." I wanted to say: you can only have blood consciousness with whores, there is too much mind between us, too much literature, too much illusion- but then you denied there had been only mind...

My face makes you think that all my expectations go up, up...but you know now that it is not only my mind which is aware of you.

Aware of you, chaotically. I love this strange, treacherous softness of you which always turns to hatred. How did I single you out? I saw you with that intense selective way- I saw a mouth that was at once intelligent, animal, soft...strange mixture- a human man, sensitively aware of everything-I love awareness- a man, I told you, whom life made drunk. Your laughter was not a laughter which could hurt, it was mellow and rich. I felt warm, dizzy and I sang within myself. You always said the truest and deepest things-slowly-and you have a way of saying, like a southerner-hem, hem-trailingly, while off on your own introspective journey- which touched me.

Just before that I had sought, as I told you, suicide. But I waited to meet you, as if that would solve something-and it did. When I saw you I thought, here is a man I could love. And I was no longer afraid of feelings. I couldn't go through with the suicide (idea of killing off romanticism), something held me back. I can only move wholly.

I felt your mind watching me. I didn't want love because it is chaos, and it makes the mind vacillate like wind-blown lanterns. I wanted to be very strong before you, to be against you- you love so to be against things. I love to be for things. You make caricatures. It takes a great hate to make caricatures. I elect, I love- the welling of love stifles me at night- as in that dream which you struggled to make real yesterday- to nail down, yes, with your engulfing kiss.

Anais

Henry Valentine.

2010-09-16T18:20:00.002-06:00

Jealousy renders one impotent and fouls one too, at the same time. To keep me in such a state would be tantamount to destroying me. Be glad, yes, that I can suffer, but don't use it as a weapon. In the end it only acts as a boomerang. For if you destroy me you destroy yourself. I am sure you know all this, without my telling you. But now and then a woman likes not only to feel her power, but to use it.

What threw me into consternation was the evident enjoyment with which you swam into a sea of flattery. As tho' no one in all your life had ever paid you a compliment. That's your weakness. That weakness I can't play up to. It's not my nature. I've never withheld saying a good and beautiful thing to you, but to say them constantly, just to pamper you, no, I can't do it. It's false. You ought not expect to be fed that every day. I don't even like writing you this way, even telling you such things. Because together it was never necessary. You never did anything that could be criticized. I found a perfection in you. And that perfection which is yours can't be altered. It's you. I want you to keep it, keep your essential self. When I think of you it's of a woman who dances into the room- everything at once radiant and luminous. That's why you're always in the prow of the boat, singing. You light the mariner on his way.

Stop! Full stop! If I were to halt here the picture would only be half-true. I don't see you as a beacon-light merely. (Tho' for most men, and especially artists, that would be sufficient.) I see you as a woman. That light is the only effulgence of your spirit. But your body claims me too- just as much. Your body burns in me. I don't want a searchlight with me, however powerful. I want the whole apparatus. And I'm not just content with the radiant aura you throw about everything. I want the whole apparatus. And want it uniquely, for myself alone. That is the mistake I made- to share you. That made the woman less, I fear. Now it's got to be you altogether, seven days in the week, and voyages included. (And no understudying for psychoanalysts, no parts in the ballet, no Paramount tests, "no sleeping propositions.") To hear you rattle off all these things in your letters, to know the endless pressing, the clamor, the sweating that goes on about you just drives me nuts. If you think I've become a Puritan, think so. I don't care. I won't share you!!! You're mine and I'm going to keep you. I have become fiercely possessive. But I'm not a tyrant. I ask only justice- justice in the name of love.

Henry

P.S. You ought to be over your period now and riding the waves again. With woman the psychological moment is often the biological moment.

...reviens vers moi.

2010-09-15T21:28:00.001-06:00

if only i could fast-forward to spring 2011!

2010-09-15T10:32:00.021-06:00

when i won't be here!

the only non-sucky thing about this week for me is that it is fashion week.
here are my favorites, thus far.

risto:

suno:

peter jensen:

michael angel:

bcbg:

my favorite collection of the season is vera wang. inspired by kill bill! *cough*

ok, tie for favorite! marc jacobs. i could post pretty much the entire collection. homage to 70's/ysl-moroccan-phase/jodie foster in taxi driver/studio-54-era-halston. brilliant.

derek lam:

carolina herrera:

jason wu:

victoria beckham:

lookit my butt!

2010-09-13T10:54:00.006-06:00

i got this dress this weekend at my v fave shop: mercy vintage in oakland.

i am crazy about this marigold color lately and i like the long sleeves paired with the extra shortness of it. the hood sealed the deal for me. i saw it and i said, "oh i love this." and marisa gave me her suspicious/frowny/hater "really sis?" look. and i said, "yes! what." and she goes, "um. maybe as like, a house coat." and i said, "i'm buying it. just to spite you." i did buy it. i wore it yesterday morning to thrift town. as i was walking out of my building i became worried about the shortness of it. all i could think of was this:

which made me worry about possible butt exposure, but i knew that any number of creeps on the block would let me know immediately if my butt was in fact showing. made me think of my 7 year old neice, mia, who every time she gets out of the bath runs through the house yelling "lookit my butt!" and my brother turns and looks at me and tilts his head to one side and raises one eyebrow and gives me his "this is your fault. it's your fault that my child turned out crazy like you." look. and i always give him my apologetic smile/shrug and i say, "look, it's not MY fault the kid is into streaking."

the end.

monthly curse!

2010-09-12T17:35:00.004-06:00

yesterday morning i woke up and my fowl mood had not lifted. i dyed my hair, which only kept the fowlness rolling. then while cleaning my apartment i decided to pull out the "ex-files" (a little box containing old love letters, pictures, locks of hair, severed genitalia from former boyfriends and husbands) and go through shit. because that's a fucking fixer right there. if you're in a shit mood- totally pull out a box full of painful reminders of how much people really don't love you anymore. good call of the weekend numero uno.

then i went to oakland to see my friend marisa, whom i have not seen in a coons age (that's the life span of a raccoon, that's a long time!). we went shopping. i tried on clothes that did not fit me and almost burst into tears in the dressing room at pretty penny. then we somehow decided going to telegraph in berkeley, during a cal bears game, was a good idea. good call of the weekend numero dos. we went and got giant salads and sweet marisa listened to me blather on (for the literal millionth time) about my pathetic love life. then we went to amoeba records where i could not recall anything that i had been planning on getting. i bought depeche mode and new order records. for my cheeriness.

today i woke up and my fowl mood had not lifted. i went running. still in a fowl mood. i went to thrift town where i was informed, by the merchandise, that it is christmas. i'm so relived, christmas time is here a-gain! a hobo walked up to me and he says to me, he says, "good morning lady. i love your hair. it looks really nice." i would have kissed that gentle hobo had his crusty hobo lips not been actually scorched from actually hitting the actual crack pipe! i nearly purchased a pink and gray striped t-shirt dress for $4 but i convinced myself that it could not possibly contain my enormousness within it. i nearly started crying so i put the dress down and got out of there. continually clothes shopping while in a fowl mood and bloated beyond belief. good call of the weekend numero trace.

then i decided to drive to amoeba records on haight street to pick up the shit i had forgotten the previous day. driving to haight street at noon on a sunday. brilliant idea. parking abound, plenty of space to move around, wonderful people there. not. good call numero whatever. i don't effing speak spanish OKAY?

as i was driving up haight i saw this couple standing on the street and the dude took the girls hand in his and held it up to his lips and kissed it. and then they skipped off arm n' arm. then i saw another couple. then i saw another couple. then i rolled down my window and started shouting "oh you're so in love and so HAPPY! FUCK YOU!"

then after hitting a sea of bullshit traffic i gave up and turned the car around. screw amoeba. as

i was driving home i passed a KFC and i thought to myself, "mmm. i wish i had a bathing suit made out of kfc chicken skin." my next thought was, "not extra crispy. original recipe." the thought that followed was, "not a bikini. a 1 piece." next up was, "i would murder somebody for a biscuit and a couple of packets of that yellow goo that tastes vaguely like butter." then it dawned on me: "i have got to be pms-ing. there is simply no logical explanation for this shit."

i got home and was this close to sticking my head in the oven. i had to give myself a talking to. it went like this:

"heeey, collins. feeling pretty crappy huh? maybe you should do something productive for once in your life like painting. what's that, you don't wanna? oh, what would you rather do? keep on being a lil' bitch?" so then i painted. i painted for a few hours. and after a few hours i felt a lot better and my general feeling of outrage and overwhelming desire to eat my way through a dump truck full of mashed potatoes had passed. and then i went to the bathroom and there it was! aunt flo! you've come to town to visit me! how wonderful!

after that i was so stoked to be on the rag that i decided to go for a walk. i got about 3 blocks from my house and i ran into my v v v old friends matthew and lauren, whom i have not seen in a real actual coons! we stood around and shot the shit, talked about piles of cash and cocaine and skateboarding and pregnancy. the usual shit people talk about on a sunday afternoon. then matthew asked me, if he had the ability to impart any divine talent upon me, what would it be? and i gave it a good hard thought, i mean i thought for about two or three seconds and then i replied, "hang gliding." then i walked them to buffalo exchange and matthew and i talked about freestyle hang gliding and girth and grinding and lauren got bored and then i decided to excuse myself because i needed to get home and change my tampon! then matthew asked for my digits. boo-yah.

so ladies, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, then it's probably pms! you're welcome!

fire in the hole!

2010-09-12T13:50:00.001-06:00

sweet jams.

2010-09-10T16:15:00.007-06:00

these are my favorite songs right now:

1. it's a man's man's man's world (live 1970)- MC5. i listen to this song and for about 5 minutes i feel like MC5 is the coolest fucking band ever. sorry james brown & xtina, this version kills it.

2. true faith- new order. it's sorta gay and dancey, just like me.

3. vienna- ultravox. oh my holy shit, i love it so much i wanna marry it. i feel like dan boeckner wants to marry this song too. i'm going through this british new wave phase right now but i'm walking through it blindly! please advise!

4. my war- black flag. i got my arm drilled on last weekend and my tattooer had a self-described melt down half way through it because news broke that another "hack" tattooer ripped off one of his designs. he stopped drilling on my arm so that he could blog about it. after he blogged about it he sat there talking about how he was going to personally smash all of her machines and how if she didn't, and i quote, "renounce" the tattoo, he would fight her. the entire time that this was going on, the smiths were playing in the background. i physically could not hold back my laughter, i really couldn't. the whole time i just wanted to sing "MY WAR! you're one of them! you say, that you're my friend but you're one of them!" every time he would say something the little rollins in my head would go, "oh! you're one of them, you're one of them i can't believe you!" and he'd be like, "there's a code between tattooers." and the little rollins in my head would go, "and you're one of them, one of them! them them them! MY! WAR!" i left the shop and immediately put this song on.

5. stop me if you think blah blah blah- the smiths. so, this tattooer has played the smiths every time he's tattooed me. and he's always like, "you like the smiths." and it's not really a question. so i say, "sure." and then he stops and looks at me and says, "i've not tattooed people again because they hate morrissey." and i'm like, "what's not to like?" this is followed by stern silence, and i have to hold my breath out of fear that he has secret evil mind reading powers and can hear warlock pinchers singing "morrissey rides a cock horse!" inside my head. and then he'll be like, "so are you a vegetarian?" and i'm like, "oh jesus. god. no." and then he stops and looks at me and says, "so this song means nothing to you." and i sort of feel like crying/or peeing my pants. the truth is i've pretty much never heard the smiths. i don't really give a fuck about the smiths. but every time i hear this song it gets so insanely stuck in my head, and then it's like my inner morrissey is touching butts with my inner rollins. and it's wonderful.

6. yulia- wolf parade. so this is my favorite song on expo 86. fyi.

7. at death, a proclomation- phosphorescent. this song is 1:52 of me going, "holy fucking shit, i've got to hear the rest of this record." i've still never heard it. st. clare? any good?

8. can we still be friends- todd rundgren. just for the weird break where the band drops out and it's just the organ and him sort of laughing and then going "la la la la la LA LA LA LA LA CAN. WE. STILL. BE. FRIENDS." it makes me feel like my face is going to explode. i enjoy sarcasm. i enjoy it deeply.

9. mad world- tears for fears. a few (okay SEVERAL) years back when john frusciante was putting out those rad lists of his favorite records and he kept putting tears for fears on there i was like, "really john frusciante?" about a week ago, i finally got it. this song should not be overlooked because of the gay early 2000's version done by some cheeseball for donnie darko. this song is fucking CRAZY.

10. rocks off- rolling stones. you know right after the opening guitar lick when keith richards goes, "awww yeahhh"? sometimes i get just that stuck in my head and i find myself doing it while making the "hang loose hawaii" hand gesture. and i sort of want to die.

screw positive thinking! how bout the truth!

2010-09-10T12:07:00.005-06:00

here's some true facts for your friday:

1. i hate my job! i hate it. i hate it so much that if my job were a person i would beat it senseless. i would kick the actual crap out of it and then make it bite the curb and then i would stomp on it's stupid head. i would do murder on my job. that's a fact.

2. i like to stay current with the trends, and i wanted to get in on this whole "skinny jeans" phenom but i've got too much junk in the trunk. does that stop me? hell no! i had to buy skinny jeans a size too big so that they would fit over my thunder thighs. my legs are snug as a bug in a rug, but the waist is baggy and keeps sliding down so that i look like i have a load in my pants. looks like i pooped my pants. but my calves look fucking sexy!

3. my cyber fuck buddy has actual sex with his actual girlfriend. :-(

4. i decided to not color my hair this month, i thought i would embrace my oldness and try to be one of those silver fox types. but i'm secretly a redhead so my hair doesn't get silver and foxy, it gets a sort of pale-orangey translucent color. my hair is see-through. i look like an out of focus bald woman.

5. when i got to peets this morning, the line was out the door and i was so outraged that i actually guffawed out loud and defiantly stomped across the street to the other "coffee" place, starbucks (aka fueling station for evil androids). i got to starbucks and the line was out the door, but i was not going back to peets after what they did. by the time i got up to the "barista" in her stupid green apron with her glassey eyed cheeriness i was in a pissy mood and i decided "she" was a totally appropriate person to take it out on. i ordered a medium coffee. she, of course, corrected me in her totally fucking chipper robot repeating voice, "grande house blend." i tried staring at her hard enough to make her robot head explode but no dice. then i thought about tossing the "grande" "house blend" in her face and seeing if her rubber skin would melt off while her robot brain parts made sizzling frying sounds but ultimately i decided that destroying a lowly starbucks android was not the way to cure my blues. instead i decided that i am not going to do shit today. and i mean fucking nothing. that's a fact.

thank you for listening. tgi actual f.

camera obscura.

2010-09-09T10:00:00.000-06:00

i've found a less creepy place to hang my hat:

http://lesritesdespassage.tumblr.com/

dear chicken little,

2010-09-08T16:10:00.003-06:00

i just read an interview with this waifish actress and she said, "i want to be a normal person! normal people don't work out 6 days a week!" they don't? really? fuck. i want to be a normal person too.

geneen roth calls it the "one false move" syndrome. one false move and the world will crumble. one missed workout and my thighs will expand. one pastry and my hips will spread. one cheeseburger and my life is over, it's ruined, it's all fucked. one bad angle and he won't think i'm pretty. i will cease to be attractive. one silly comment and they will think i'm stupid. one false move and everyone will know the truth: that i am really fat, ugly, and entirely unloveable.

roth says that those of us who learned as children that we are loved not because of who we are but because of what we do develop "one false move" syndrome. as a little kid it was not enough to simply be someone's child, that didn't make you loveable. that certainly didn't make you loved. so we did everything, everything we possibly could to be "good" enough. good enough to be loved.

the pressure is unbearable. how can i be good enough for you? what can i do? how can i look? how can i act? how can i convince you to love me? and once i've actually fooled you into loving me, keeping up the act will never work because eventually you will find out. one day there will be a false move, and you will leave. so let me beat you to the punch. let me leave you before you get wise to my imperfection and leave me.

i'm known at work for my attention to detail. i'm famous for it. people used to tell me that i was a perfectionist, and i'd agree. "i'm just a perfectionist, i can't help it." now, i don't believe in perfectionists. i think they are all just living in "one false move" mode. living in constant fear and anticipation of when somebody will find out that they are not perfect (and not loveable).

sometimes i look around and i wonder how long i've been holding up the ceiling, carrying this weight, trying to keep the whole thing from crashing down. the answer is most of my life. the incredible thing is that none of it is real.

love is not about the details. how does a person learn to love? they don't. they can't. they just do. love just is, because we just are.

and your father really loved you all along.

i can not actually wait.

2010-09-06T19:22:00.002-06:00

i wonder what this day will be.

2010-09-06T07:31:00.006-06:00

the sun is not quite up yet and i can't tell if it is foggy this morning yet.

what a life i have.

i have enough money to live in my own apartment, and to buy all of the things that i want. i have enough money to pay my bills and buy outfits and good food. i have enough money to get tattooed by cris cleen and to go home every couple of months to visit my family. i have some really great co-workers who i really like seeing every day. i get to work in downtown san francisco and walk between the gorgeous towering buildings and stop at the stoplights and look up, up, up and every day think, "wow." there are fresh flowers on my dresser and blackberries in the refrigerator and new shoes on my feet and strong cups of coffee, daily.

in some ways i feel as though i just got sober. it's not about alcohol or abstaining, not for me anyway. i think that "sobriety" is really just presence. being present in one's life instead of checking out. last month i stopped dieting. i have been on a diet of some kind since i was 10 years old. and last month i stopped dieting. i stopped compulsively eating. i started sitting down every night and simply eating a meal without any distractions. i can't tell you how terrifying the act of simply eating a meal was for me. but i started doing it, i started sitting with myself and eating and chewing my food and tasting it and taking a breath and noticing when my body got full. and i started letting go of it. i started letting go of food. and i started to feel when my body was hungry. and when my body was not hungry, i stopped eating. simple. yet somehow a radical concept (thank you, geneen roth).

in the last year addiction has been a big topic for me, it's been heavy on my mind. but for so many years it was about the substance or compulsive behavior, never about what it was masking, hiding, keeping down, numbing. i realize that addictions can take on a million faces, it can be alcohol, cocaine, bingeing, starving, exercise, shopping, unavailable men, ex-boyfriends, current boyfriends, somebody else's boyfriend, sex, cutting, it can be any/all/any combination of the above. objects of obsession keep us from our lives, our feelings, what's really happening inside of us. they take us out of ourselves because we're too afraid to be in ourselves, in our lives, in our feelings.

i feel like once i got that, once i realized it and what it meant for me, these things just started popping up one after the other. it's like being at a firing range, the bad guys keep coming and i've had to keep shooting. the things that i was using to keep myself high/numb became very clear, one after the other. and suddenly all of these feelings started coming out, memories from childhood that i had blocked out of my consciousness started appearing, in color.

the thing is that the feelings get so buried from the years of pushing them away and avoiding them that you think you don't even know how to feel anymore. you think it's all so thick and black and crusty and you'll never dig through it or even get to it. but it's all RIGHT THERE. and the crazy thing is that it's not half, not one tenth as bad as you've made it to be. it's not one tenth as bad as the compulsive behavior is, as the act of not feeling it is.

i used to think it was complete crap when people would say that they felt their feelings about their mother or whatever, and then they could forgive them. but it's sort of ridiculous how simply feeling something, when you stop resisting it, can ease everything. it's the resistance that is heavy and painful. not the feelings. once you stop resisting it, it's not so big anymore. pretty early on i was taught that feelings were weakness, and that feeling them was feeling sorry for yourself. now i think that depression is feeling sorry for yourself, depression is not feeling. i think that depression is being angry about having feelings and not feeling like you are entitled to them. i was depressed for about 32 years. just about.

i totally have days where i think "i'm so depressed." and then i stop and look around, and mostly i'm just lonely. mostly i'm just comparing myself to somebody else. comparing my life to somebody else's. and i realize it's not that big, nothing is ever that big. there's only this moment right now, whatever is right in front of you, in your hands and under your feet. i was lucky enough to completely disassemble my life, bit by bit, and i ended up with nothing, i ended up living with my father with everything i owned in the trunk of my car. and here i am, here i am and i've rebuilt my life all over again. i think that people don't realize that they choose it all, they choose everything in their lives. i certainly never realized it, not until i walked away from it. i don't feel like things happen to me anymore, i put something out and i get something back and if i don't like it, i do something else. it's not that fucking complicated.

every day now i get up and i sit for a few minutes and i think about what i hope the day will be. and sometimes it turns out different than what i wanted, but it's always interesting. if nothing else life is interesting. and it fucking wasn't when i was numb. it sucked! it was heavy. it was heavy and i was living in constant defense mode, fits up, anticipating the next hit. now, things are changing. things have changed.

the sun is up and the sky is blue, not gray, and it's a day. pretty great.

belle (for carrie).

2010-08-31T09:27:00.006-06:00

dear daughters of our youth,
dear tiny bird dear open beak searching
dear summer spent in milky fullness
dear 7 pound formless weight of our love
with eyes blind and merky blue
as the sea inside us
dear presience born
from the shadows of our ancestory
dear decorous halo
dear crown of love
dear citadel
dear dream of life
dear all of our hopes
swirling around your skull
dear everything we ever wanted
dear ashes of our yearning
settling in pale powder across your skin
dear ghosts of our longing
dear chords of our heartstrings
extending
dear bloodlines
forming
dear grandmothers china
dear porcelain
too precious to put down
for fear that you might break
for
fear that we might break
without one moment of
holding you close
dear sounds of all our squelched longing
ringing out of your tiny lungs
rising in our chests
and turning us into mothers
dear sanguine expectations
rendered in the sanguine flush of cheeks
dear proof of life
dear american dream
dear all of our most elegant mixed with
all of our most carnal all of our most gory
dear rock solid
dear collapsing womb
dear rest of our lives
dear now i got worry
dear procurement of sanctuary
dear withholding and deathly afraid turned
giver of life
dear lost weekends dear endless rebellion
dear sudden protector
dear gravity
dear motherless
mothering
dear seedling sewn
dear foundation settling
dear wordless wonder
dear heart's content
fathom thee

a story i never told.

2010-08-27T06:05:00.004-06:00

it is summer and they have been at it for days. he chases her through the house with his arm raised and moving like a pitcher mid set up. their shouts merge and are indecipherable. it is summer and they are fighting because we are here, my brother and i. because it is summer and my mother has gone to england and left us here.

in the mornings she washes the mascara tear stains from her face and puts on her suit to cover the bruises in the shape of his finger prints on her arms and shoulders and she takes the empty wine bottles out to the trash cans and goes off to work. and he does the same. and i spend the day vacuuming the house. i water the plants. i dust the little porcelain firetrucks that belonged to my grandfather on the mantle. i bake brownies. i stack my grandmothers 1950's mint green dishes in perfect rows on the kitchen shelves. i comb my hair and feed the cat and straighten the family portrait in the hallway. i do this every day while they are at work, trying to keep the walls from caving in. trying to find some way to make them happy. trying to make everything perfect. trying to be good enough. trying to be good enough so that he will love me.

they are shouting and we are sitting there frozen, lined up on the couch like little dolls, watching it play out in front of us like theater. there's is a love out of a greek tragedy. she turns and he grabs at her and spins her around and wrestles her to the floor and that is when we break. the three of us scatter and look for shelter, dark tiny spaces in which to disappear. i run down the hallway to my usual spot, into the closet with the winter coats, behind the bucket of umbrellas. and it is hot and my shorts and t-shirt are sticking to me and the shouting gets louder and louder. she is breaking dishes. and i get up and i run down the hallway and into the pitch black of the garage. the night air hangs heavy and i step down into it and i want to dissolve into the darkness and i move deeper into it, into the mechanical whir of the freezer and the ratteling of the washing machine that turn their shouting into muffled cries.

and a hand reaches out and grabs me and i don't gasp because i know who it is. it is her son. it is my step-brother and he is 16 and i am 7 and he pulls me down onto his lap and i can feel it through his pants and he moves my hand to unbuckle his belt. and i don't fight it because i am 7 and i am scared and i just want to be held. and then i feel myself start floating, floating like i do every time, like it is every time: i am wearing the white satin angel dress that my mother made me for the halloween carnival, the one with squiggley gold trim around the sleeves and the hem, and the halo that she made out of my plastic headbands and plumbing coil and tin foil and i float up and up and up past the ceiling and through the roof of this house where my father grew up where his mother died, this house in the suburbs that was built for men to keep their pretty brides and babies when they came home from the war, i float up and up to the sky.

and then suddenly he tosses me from his lap and i hit the cement floor with my knees with a heavy thud and my glasses fall from my face and onto the ground.

"you're disgusting." he says, "and i'm going to tell your dad what you did." and he walks past me and out the door into the driveway.

and i feel around for my glasses and i then i hear them crunch beneath my body. and i frantically pick them up and try to push them back into place but they are broken. and i can't put them back together. and my father hasn't looked at me in days but he'll see that i'm not wearing my glasses and he'll know that i broke them because i am fat and stupid and clumsy and he's going to kill me. and i crawl underneath his pickup truck and i close my eyes and the tears run hot across my cheeks.

repetition/compulsion/repetition(compulsion)

2010-08-26T18:16:00.000-06:00

I was driving across the burning desert
When I spotted six jet planes
Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain
It was the hexagram of the heavens
it was the strings of my guitar
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets thru to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture post card charms
Amelia it was just a false alarm

People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Where some have found their paradise
Other's just come to harm
Oh, Amelia it was just a false alarm

I wish that he was here tonight
It's so hard to obey
His sad request of me to kindly stay away
So this is how I hide the hurt
As the road leads cursed and charmed
I tell Amelia it was just a false alarm

A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea like me she had a dream to fly
Like Icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia it was just a false alarm

Maybe I've never really loved
I guess that is the truth
I've spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude
And looking down on everything
I crashed into his arms
Amelia it was just a false alarm

I pulled into the Cactus Tree Motel
To shower off the dust
And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust
I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams Amelia - dreams and false alarms

(joni mitchell)

great things about today.

2010-08-22T16:26:00.004-06:00

the sun finally beating out the fog.

working on a drawing, then erasing much of it before the true figure finally revealed itself.

shaking the sand and dust and strands of hair from the rugs.

lying on my sofa reading alice munro stories with the warm sun on my legs.

my father, who begins the morning by saying "you are so thoughtful!" and inviting me to go to croatia with him in the spring.

catching the clock at 3:33 feeling lucky and even luckier that i get to stop for a moment and make a wish.

the pale distortion and guitar tones of everybody knows this is nowhere- born from neil young's 103 degree fever- filling my apartment in the late morning.

the incredibly foxy, slightly graying produce guy at bi-rite.

frozen cherries and blackberries in a turquoise teacup.

the small index card containing my late step-mothers pesto recipe, her handwriting is smudged and fading but, much like her gorgeous face, i know it all by heart.

the luxury of having the time to drink a pot of french press coffee while writing down my dreams.

blue velvet ballet flats.

honey gold asian pears.

pretty girls in shorts and sunglasses with their hair pulled back.

anxious anticipation of my evening appointment with the lovely tattooer.

tom waits. tom waits. tom waits. a voice that makes me want to cry for all of the exquisite memories that it conjures.

the lovely rose print dress hanging from my bedroom door. silvery green leaves against a black background.

walking to noe valley under the shade of towering palm trees.

finally finding a small gift worthy of the magnificent honor of belonging to naomi st. clare.

buckets of delicate orange and yellow and pink tea roses stuck in amongst the brilliant red gladyolas and blue hydrangeias.

the sweet moments of loneliness that tell me i have really loved and been loved in return, one or two hundred thousand moments in my life.

midnight blue satin jumpsuits.

major annabelle novack, officially a virgo and no less adored for it.

soft denim sliding over my legs.

day dreaming about the ripe bulbs of cotton along the arkansas highways.

white block letters across a parisian dance hall, the words translated: "all best wishes for the last tango."

dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt.

the songs i hear on my sunday strolls (piano ballads) (chords played on heart strings).

ugh.

2010-08-20T05:51:00.004-06:00

i'll have you know that my neighbor woke me up at 2:45 am.

it is now 4:30 and i've decided to stop laying in bed stressing the eff out.

i'm having my coffee. the sun will be up in about 2 hours. not in san francisco. but somewhere else.

thank you.

good night.

**update**

it is now 8:53 am and i am sitting at my desk at work. i just spent the last 27-29 minutes staring at a little blue thumbtack on my cubicle wall. this rips.

what's a person to do when they are awoken at 2:45 am? i'll tell you! a person lays in bed for 1 hour and 15 minutes feeling a mixed bag of emotions such as anxiety, blind rage, frustration and other unrelated physical maladies caused by aging. then a person can't take it anymore! and gets up, making certain to stomp around loudly and slam various cabinet doors while making coffee. then a person cracks open the old el machino to review whatever insults, praises, flirtations and cock-blockery has gone down on flickr.com in the night. then a person does yoga for 45 excruciating minutes while trying not to fall over. then, a person stands in the shower for 15 minutes staring at the shower curtain. then a person realizes that a person forgot to rinse the conditioner out of her hair and has to turn the shower back on. then a person puts on her metallica sweatsuit and heads out the door. then a person walks to the subway on her tippy-toes so as not to disturb the sleeping junkies all nestled into their cardboard doorway beds. then a person rides the train downtown with a bunch of sleeping hobos. then a person hits the gym and pumps actual iron while watching baseball highlights on the tv. then a person gets to work promptly at 8:00 only to find she is locked out of the building. then a person goes to walgreens to purchase the september issue of vogue and stands at the cash register biting her fingernails hoping that her credit card is not rejected for insufficient funds. then a person gets let into her office and tries not to cry as she looks at the 47 emails waiting for her. then a person reads an email from her father saying that she has jury duty in her hometown next week. then a person sits at her desk and listens to her boss playing taylor swift and wonders how much of a running start she would have to get to actually leap through the windows of his office in order to plunge to her certain death. then she decides to blog about it.

the end.

paper dolls.

2010-08-18T10:38:00.005-06:00

i love how cyclical fashion is. i love when things from my childhood come back around. getting to wear things that were trendy way back when can make you feel like that teenager or little kid again.

when i was in 2nd grade i had this dress:

it was my favorite.

it had these great triangle panels that were fastened with oversized white plastic buttons. it had a cut out back that came together with another big white button.

we were "latch-key kids" and we got ourselves up and dressed and to school every morning. i can't tell you how many times my mom would come home from work in the evening and say, "tell me you didn't wear that to school." one day i wore this favorite dress backwards, so that the two triangle pannels of the cut out back covered what would (much) later become my breasts. the skirt hit just above what would (much) later become my hips, so my belly was covered but i did, in fact, have a bare midriff situation (haaay britney spears!). my 2nd grade teacher sent me to the principals office. my mom had to leave work and bring me a big bulky mickey mouse sweatshirt to cover myself with. because i refused to turn the dress around. suffer for fashion! moms was pissed. it was one of the many times i was cursed for being "such a leo."

lately i've been seeing a lot of dresses with cutout backs in all of the teeny bopper shops.

also i'm v v pleased that the 90's are back. which means i get to bust out all of my courtney love (circa her 1st nose job) inspired kinderwhore dresses. i can't WAIT until chokers come back.

the strangest feeling i ever know'd

2010-08-15T10:30:00.000-06:00

is falling out of love.

arcade fire presents: da burbs.

2010-08-14T07:52:00.009-06:00

firstly, i have a question. did born in the u.s.a. just get reissued in canada or something? what the shit?!

i had a tough time with this record at first because i didn't want to like it. i don't want to like arcade fire. they're far too beloved, i don't trust it. and the first time i heard this record i sort of had one thought and that was, "it ain't wolf parade!" but i noticed the similarities right away and i felt real competitive. like, win butler's trying to rip dan boeckner. and then i had to tell myself to shut up. but indulge me here, dear reader, just for a minute or two.

win butler was born in 1980. dan boeckner was born in 1978. i think about these two years and the difference between them a lot, because i know someone, who shall remain nameless, who was born in 1980 and i was born in 1978 and i notice the differences all the time. for example: nirvana became a total phenom in 1991. this person was 11. i was 13. kurt cobain died in april 1994. this person was 13. i was 15. green day's dookie came out later that year. green day and rancid putting out records on major labels and hawking them on mtv was a local tragedy in my little world. by the time this person got to high school, commercial punk wasn't news. when they were in high school smashing pumpkins and pavement were the big deal. to them, kim deal is the chick from the breeders. to me, kim deal'll always be the chick from the pixies. jane's addiction was a big deal for me. weezer was a big deal for them. there are these subtle differences that are sort of profound musically.

so, i listen to arcade fire's new record and i think about the subtle differences between what i hear coming out of dan boeckner and win butler. they're both heavily springsteen driven records, with quite a bit of 80's synth pop mixed in. if wolf parade's expo 86 is all born in the usa and born to run, arcade fire's the suburbs is all born in the usa and the river. if wolf parade's expo 86 has some inxs and new order mixed in, arcade fire's the suburbs has some u2 and depeche mode mixed in.

my first listen, i thought this record sounded self-conscious. but it's not self-conscious, it's self-questioning. it's a grower, it's a sneak up and take over your life record. there's a whole range on this record, from downright sad to self-doubting to fucking bravado. but not springsteen bravado or iggy pop bravado, more like bono bravado. i hear u2's war and the unforgettable fire on this record as much as springsteen's born in the usa & the river. i mean, it's heavy. i never thought about it before hearing this record, but win butler has a pretty serious bono vibe to him, bono before his enormous ego pervaded the entire planet. win butler also has a pretty staggering vulnerability that bono has never had.

this is a concept record, which rips. i love concept records. it's a concept record (the concept is the suburbs, dummy) but the songs are just as much about the montreal music scene and the separation between arcade fire and their peers due to their wild success. it's one of those "price of fame" records, as 3rd records tend to be. the songs are ridiculously catchy, they have real hooks. the opening track has a melody that won't quit, and they bring it back around in a broomy, orchestral, imperial bedroom-esque closing track. this is a concept record's concept record (yeah?), up there with sgt. peppers and quadrophenia and iron maiden's the seventh son of a seventh son (which follows the folklore and myths of a seventh son of a seventh son having mystical powers!) and janet jackson's rhythm nation.

the first 4 tracks are steady like a freight train, they don't fucking let up. and the choruses are so catchy it hurts. it kinda actually hurts. the 3rd track, modern man, drives me actually crazy. it's pure boss. lyrically, musically, rhythm wise, riff wise, whole ball'a wax-- pure, pure, pure boss. it has the boss-esque refrain and the sort of fire three-chord-change-rockabilly-springsteen-writing-for-elvis-presley-recorded-by-the-pointer-sisters-lead-with-your-loins-thing. the thing that kills me in this song is that they do a signature springsteen break. they build it up by having the bass and guitar lines the same, and then boom! this brilliant dancing in the dark like break. drums stop, hand claps come in, repeat the hook. so hot! there is something that happens to me when i hear a springsteen break, i have this automatic response: my fist just goes in the air. i can be on the subway, walking the dog, at the gym, waiting in line to collect my food stamps, and i hear it and bam! my fist flies in the air. i can be in the worst mood ever and i hear it and it's like a catatonic response. i can't help myself. ("dear god, it's me, margaret. why am i such a fucking dork?")

after the first four songs i guess he had to give his wife a song. just kidding. just kids! the song empty room is sorta cocteau twins meets thompson twins. i digress, i'm not really into the breathy ethereal chick singer thing. but i like it when they sing together. the other duet with regine chassagne, half light I has a bit of a shoegazer vibe to it. the other song with regine chassagne singing leads, sprawl II is sort of abba meets the sugarcubes meets tears for fears.

so back to the whole "price of fame" thing. this record, being a concept record about the suburbs, has a lot of childhood themes on it. a lot of the songs, however, don't have a lot of nostalgia to them. win butler is 30 years old. there's definitely a feeling of the whole shedding your youth, questioning what it is to no longer be a kid thing. that point in your life where you start to break from your friends with the same painful separation that occurred when you broke from your parents as a teenager. that sort of angered confusion is present on a lot of the songs, and it ties in with the whole break from the montreal music scene thing too. it happens in a lot of towns, to go from the darlings of the music scene to being hated by your peers is rough. it makes for great songs, but it's the stuff that made jack white beat jason stollmeyer's actual face in and move to nashville. it's the stuff that made springsteen ditch the e street band, move to l.a. and make shitty records. it's the stuff that made kurt cobain become a full fledged junkie. it goes from hating everyone to questioning yourself, there's fuck you and maybe fuck me too. the alienation is clear. (city with no children in it: "a garden left for ruin by a millionaire inside of a private prison. you never trust a millionaire quoting the sermon on the mount. i used to think i was not like them but i'm beginning to have my doubts.")

the song suburban war is the best of the bunch. it's so flawlessly springsteen that it could be slid right in on side 2 of the river. it's bobby jean meets point blank. it's what bobby jean would sound like if it had been on the river. "the music divides us into tribes, you choose your side i'll choose my side. oh my old friends they don't know me now. oh my old friends are staring through me now. oh my old friends they don't know me now."

there's quite a bit of piano on the record, it's a little who baba o'riley-esque but i hear tom waits' rain dogs on songs like deep blue. we used to wait has a great spector-esque girl group piano with a late 80's synth rhythm that's pretty brilliant. and there's also the neil young standard (but of course!) wasted hours.

sprawl I is where things really swing the other way. butler sounds like he's crying as he's singing, and it has this very faint orchestral background. which sounds fucking cheesy, but it's all done so subtly, and there's an almost palpable regret in the vocal that is astounding. this song makes me remember, emotionally, what it felt like to be a kid. hearing it for the first time sort of gave me access to feelings i didn't even remember. pretty incredible.

then you have the fantastic closer, the suburbs II, which brings you back to the opening melody and fades out slowly like you're walking down the street humming it to yourself.

so yeah. i like this record. i admit it. i, jessica collins, am a fan of arcade fire. there it is.

desire (dɪˈzaɪə)

— vb
1.	to wish or long for; crave; want
2.	to express a wish or make a request for; ask for

— n
3.	a wish or longing; craving
4.	an expressed wish; request
5.	sexual appetite; lust
6.	a person or thing that is desired