So, I Google myself pretty much every week. Say what you will, it’s a good way to see what people got on you out there. That’s how I found out some website had collected all my info and had a page with my full name, phone number, last four addresses AND social security number, but that’s another story. Just now, I had the bright idea to check Google images, and halfway down the page there is a scantily-clad undies photo I took of myself as a youngster, like an idiot. “No one’s ever going to find this – this is the Internet!” I envision myself saying at the time. It’s nothing too scandalous, and I do look pretty hot (better than Kreayshawn looks in her underage nudie pics, anyway), but it was a pretty strong reminder NEVER to post anything on the ‘Net you don’t want your grandma to be able to find simply by typing in your name and scrolling down a bit.


I finally got around to watching The Social Network, and, like everyone else- I really enjoyed it. I’ll try not to say much that has already been said, but I really feel like the film had a profound effect on me. Of course it’s a work of fiction, so the story is entertaining without being necessarily truthful, but what really stuck with me were the ideas of loneliness, of wanting, and of connectivity- and how Facebook brought all of these concepts together to reform the way we view our real lives, not just our Internet personas. That’s what Facebook has become- real life, interchangeable with the life we live in 3D. Does anyone remember Friendster.com? Shit, even Myspace is applicable here. What I’m getting at is that these pre-Facebook failures grew at an exponential rate, and then disappeared just as quickly once something better comes along. What’s next after Facebook? Let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment- how many of us can really imagine life without it? If something “bigger” and “better” comes along, I’m almost afraid to move forward. What’s behind the door? Do I even want to go there? And what does it mean about us that the biggest social movement (so to speak) was created by a lone wolf, a man willing to sell out his only friend for revenge (supposedly)?


Revamp!

28Aug11

Time to make this into something cool, now that my readership is officially down 10000%. I have tons of photos and ongoing fuckery to share with all the people who don’t read this, so I’ll try to eventually post an update or something.


I started working on this as an extra credit assignment for one of my classes, but it’s actually starting to take shape. If it sounds kind of like something Frank O’Hara might write, that’s because it’s supposed to.

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In the spring we go dancing

I wear new clothes every night

And come home stinking of vodka in plastic bottles, shared cigarettes and near-death experiences on the Sunset Strip,

Only to toss jackets, skirts, jewelry I can’t be depended on to keep

Into the dark crumpled pile at the foot of my bed, out of place in daylight.

We witness Paris Hilton getting her DUI at Les Deux.

Courtney Love tells me she likes my coat at Hyde

Cory Kennedy, hipster wunderkind, lets me borrow her ID to get into Teddy’s.

We hold hands and run wasted through the streets

I’m exhilarated, losing my breath, this is the best time of my life.

This is my life. Forget college

Forget my parents, forget the roommates I left at home playing Nintendo and sharing a bottle of wine-

Forget it all!

We are too cool.

Throwing up wine in the bushes next to your car

We congratulate ourselves on our glamour.

Spinning wild like tops, we are rushing, rushing, rushing-

So intoxicated by the experience we forget that we are, in fact,

Intoxicated.

Night after night, I forget my keys.

We giggle climbing fences, breaking windows,

Screaming from the second story:

WE WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.

Everyone hates us but we mistake it for jealousy

We scan gossip websites each afternoon over fried wontons

For pictures of us in the background at parties,

Being the people we think everyone wants to be.

It’s Halloween weekend, I haven’t heard from you in weeks.

I am in my mother’s kitchen crafting a bong out of a 2 liter bottle of Coke.

You call me, you want to visit.

I’m bewildered why you need to come here, now.

You tell me it’s now or never, and I tell you I have plans with a friend you do not like.

We hang up, and I get high.

November 7, 2009. I am at the beach.

Your friend Matthew calls. You love him, but I think he’s weird and refuse to answer.

Hours later, I am shaking sand out of my things in the late-season heat

Thinking only of air-conditioning and a nap.

Ryan O. calls, wanting to know if I’ve checked my Myspace lately.

What a dumb question, I think-no one uses Myspace anymore.

Then I notice his tone.

I ask what’s wrong, he says

“Call Sean”

And I know immediately. The buttons on my phone are wet

Slipping away from me as I try to place the call

He’s shopping for clothes for your funeral.

“He was trying to get better,” I hear distantly

“He checked into rehab the weekend after Halloween…his heart stopped…it’s too late.”

I can hear Sean (who I only met once, and was too drunk to remember)

Crying.

Shaking, sweating, I see spots and hear only static

As the world wheels drunkenly away from me.

It’s been three years.

I tried to keep you from slipping away from me

I made myself cry in the presence of wontons

I drank to the bottom every bottle

And then double-checked that you weren’t there

I refused to speak your name

to keep what was left of you inside me

And now, years later, I finally exhale, look around, and realize I’m the only one here.

 


Clearly I haven’t written in a while. Honestly I haven’t been doing much. I’m so wrapped up in my own head it’s impossible to see anything else. Am I crazy, or is it everyone else? I feel like I’m walking around in The Truman Show, that everyone knows something about me that I don’t know about myself. The sad thing is, I know logically that in the great span of things I’m nothing. Not a speck of dust, not the head of a pin, just nothingness in the space in geologic time. Yet somehow I can’t shake the feeling that everything depends on me. My inactivity aside, I’m so weighted down by this so-called responsibility I can’t fucking do anything. My boyfriend thinks I’m manic depressive, I say I’m not but as I speak I feel this uncontrollable rage swell up in me like a tsunami and I am simultaneously standing on the shore watching as I rage and rage and rage uncontrollably toward the shore. I’m filled with visions of standing at the end of a blackrock jetty in thick morning mist and feeling myself careening down the cliff toward the inevitable. My nightmares persist, I get so dizzy when I stand up that it takes all my effort not to beat my breast in despair for the futility of my entire existence.

I’m working on a group of poems to try to encapsulate these feelings. Right now, they are tentatively titled “The Body Poems.” Here’s a couple things I’ve been working on (don’t steal or I’ll hunt you down and put a pair of scissors in your eyes):

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If I could rip my own face off

I could expose the truth.

The rotting skull wrapped in living flesh

exudes a wet, putrid

Fiercely biological stench that

clings, glued to the surface with antique

dust and slime.

My fingers creep round the edges which

threaten to peel open like the lips of an overripe banana.

The nails, turning green, bend and drag,

exhausted, exhumed.

I leave pieces of myself wherever I go

Strips of skin, balls of hair

evacuate my body, fleeing a sinking ship,

preferring to take a chance on the open sea.

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my heart hurts. it’s hurt and i beat my breast with

words like mallets.

assault with a deadly weapon,

my body cavity is black, black, black

like chimney soot or the charred, ashy body

lying in the street after a nuclear attack.

On the Cliffs (in progress)

I stand. The wind licks my face, the rocks

are hard and knobby beneath the soles of my shoes

Worn thin, endless years and days

and hours and seconds

second-seconds.

My heart beats bloody and flaming

valves struggle to open and shut, desperate

to make an appointment with big blue doctor blue

Except I don’t know who to send when the one standing and the one watching

are the same.

To be blasted off this earth and onto the next only takes one

in the mist, steady and dressed in stripes,

one foot in front of the next cleaves

through the fog like the fell of a butcher’s decisive wrist.

Once the head is gone a chicken isn’t a chicken any more, is it?

It’s dinner

for the fish, falling behind in the food chain because it is me and I am it and you were never there at all.


Dreams

25Aug10

I have been waking up every morning for the past week drenched in sweat-the kind where you wake up and the bed is soaked three inches out from the perimeter of your body-with shaky hands and an unshakable feeling of impending doom. Last night I dreamed of kids getting murdered. Not gang violence, no boom-boom you’re dead, but little kids getting their heads blown off yards away from me, my forehead getting splattered with blood, urgent drives through abandoned mountain roads with a black teenage boy bleeding out in my backseat. Toddlers sticking knives in their throats, I’m keeping a little girl’s intestines in her body with my bare hands. Clots of blood pouring out of me on the black and white bathroom tile, blending in with my red toenail polish, streaked red handprints above the kitchen sink. I wake up from these things and I can’t shake them all day. These aren’t the kinds of dreams that fade away-they stay with you, they wrap around you, shackles around your feet and hands, red vines tattooing henna prints up your arms. What am I supposed to say when people ask me what’s wrong?


I’ve made it this far with only one craving-induced crying jag, and I hate to say it, but I’m damn proud of myself. I went to two parties over the weekend, and I kept my chin up and my Pellegrino-filled wine glass high. I must admit, it makes me feel really smug to be the only sober person in a room full of drunks, but I try to avoid displaying my sobriety as a banner across my forehead- I feel like it makes people uncomfortable. To be fair, probably not as uncomfortable as they would watching me drunkenly fall into the trash bins and then berate said trash bins for getting all up in my grill.