Life Looks Out

It is rather exhausting to be on so many blog-things. Tumblr gets a lot more of my brain-space, because it's quicker and I don't feel so bad when I can't quite come up with complete sentences.

Anyway.

Today, after my first week of full-time work, I'm spending the weekend coming up with some goals, and working toward some others. This is my semester (or year) of independence, so I'm going to the library once a week to start crossing off some more of those 1001 Books I must read before I die, and getting some research out of the way for papers I want to write.

More creative writing is on the agenda, and I'd really, really like to start painting my nails more. Priorities, right?

Aside from all those good things, I'm keeping my ears out for creative, PR-related things to help me grow in the direction that I want--toward the sun.

Happy Birthday

A very late, very happy birthday to Virginia Woolf. When my thirteen-year-old self picked up a copy of Mrs. Dalloway after seeing The Hours, I never expected that we would become so close.

You are shaking. All is all. Remember that time we ran into each other in the parking lot?

I had taken a hundred years to find my car--it was silver and probably invisible--when I found it, you were parked next to me. How about that.

I asked you why the long face, and you said why not. You meant, "why start now?"

On the drive home, I wondered out loud what you didn't want to start. I closed my mouth and swallowed the rest of the words, because I knew. But I've felt it too, you know. Twenty-two years of walking alongside that abyss. I know who you are; I've looked in the mirror. I can break these muscles into a thousand pieces with my clenched teeth, nightshade, Valium. And one, two, three. Just like that: an absence.

I think about you a lot, and that night, in the parking lot. I wonder if you saw the way my face was soft around the edges then. Did you know how blue your eyes looked in the moonlight? Had you picked that shade of red paint just so that your car would glow in the parking lot at night?

Questions don't really matter much, now, though. I'm across the country, and you're somewhere else. I thought about calling, but I guess I don't have your number. I must've put it in my phone when I was drunk, if I even did that at all, so you've become an "A" or "Smarty" or "1!" I'm sorry that I let you fade away into another drunken mis-decision and now you might be gone forever because I don't have the heart to call all those one-letters and symbols and say your name out loud.

I know it was just a parking lot, and just under the moon. I know that you might not have noticed my soft face or your cutting eyes, and that's okay. I just had to tell you that I wish I hadn't let you go. I wish that I'd stopped to sit a while, and hear your story, and to walk on the line with you until your eyes melted just a little.

Mama,

I am in San Diego visiting a friend. My best friend. You would love her.

More and more, I feel like I'm floating, but not in a good way. A suspension bridge. A hot air balloon. I am going to fall one of these days.

Who will remind me to be polite? Who will remind me where I come from? There is no one and nothing is the same. We are all trainwrecks.

I am glad that you never got to see this darkness inside me. I am glad I kept it contained. It's harder now. It's harder to keep going, harder to remember what it felt like to have a mother. People try, but nothing works.

Nothing helps me feel like a whole person. That's why I take such deep breaths--I have to fill up the empty spaces.

What if you really are just gone when you die? What if you're down there, rotting away, and that sometimes I just imagine that I hear you? I'm pretty sure it's all fake. I'm pretty sure I've done something terrible wrong and that I'm just too stupid to realize it. I don't want to eat, and I hate that I have to. I don't want to sleep, and I also never want to wake up.

* I don't want to be alone anymore. But I always will be, huh?

How to Grieve

Start this process early--age four, at least. When your mother runs a bath for you, the water must be precisely level with your navel. It will not be hot enough, so don't expect it to be. Sit in this bath for half an hour. As the water grows colder, think of your parents. What will happen when they die?

Now, wrinkle your face and cry until your eyes are red and shiny as glass. A mild panic attack is desirable. Get out of the tub, stare in the mirror, and make sure that the correct effect has been achieved. Repeat once a year until you are twelve; too old to take baths.

When your first parent dies, both of you will be too young. But don't worry--you have mourned for over half your life. Have someone shove a Xanax and purple Gatorade down your throat. Leave your body. Do not speak. Watch yourself turn to stone.

199995

These are my collected Airport Feelings on a Two O'Clock Train.

First, I have kept you bottled up inside. So that we are perfectly clear, this is the you that once was, the me that once was, and the us that once was. An ecosystem of perfection, bundled around some nucleus made up of equal parts sexual attraction, lunacy, and fate.

Second, I am not sure what the men on the this train want from me, except to glare silently with eyes red like mine.

Third, I am sorry that your mother, and my insecurities, have co-conspired to keep me away from you, and myself, for as long as possible.

The things that will fade have done so, and I am left, tightly not-smiling, missing my stop in a Tinkerbell costume because the party ran too late and I drank too much to fill the spaces.

199996

A heart, a time or two. I loved this once, this hearty stream. This time passing, these years worn smooth like pebbles.

All are equal in the eyes of our Lord.

I sat in that old rocking chair, marking each new day with the same old things. Curtains open, sun in, biscuits made with slamming pans.

Life lays low like Johnny Cash. A whiskey-soothed song of a century.

Out of my window, I cannot tell which of my vices has done me worst.

I sing a hymnsong to mark this, my last day staring at green pines, honeysuckle, old porch through smudged glass.

Empty Cup, Uncarpeted Stairs

You said I didn't look like myself. My hair wasn't done, that was all. I watched the naked book shivering against the cold stone ceiling, waiting to be talked down.

The furs are in the kitchen, the pens are under the sink. It is April, and I am freezing.

What If

I haven't taken sides. The sides cannot be seen. When you're standing on one half of the ocean, the ocean doesn't end.

My friend has left her shirt on the sand, and she's going into the water. I should tell her to stop, she'll drown, but my throat is as closed as the night.

My feet have grown together while I've been standing on this shore. I could move, I could do anything. I could save anyone. I could swim forever. I could see the other side.

199997

An inside heartbreak.

A delicate architecture.

And you and your sword and your false-soft heart-start.

I have loved. I have lied.

The only betrayal after ten years in mourning was the bag that I packed. My eyes dry, forgetting their part of the bargain, pupils dilated in the quietest, rainiest, earliest winter.

You and I have won no beauty contests.

Your second face was late to the party. Those pink balloons have popped, or floated out to sea to kill some dolphin--smarter than us--or strangle an ancient turtle.

How do we gasp in the sea?

I asked you this once, how do fish catch their breath? You paused and said, "Like crying in the shower."

The poetry of you was always unintentional.

A misplaced tear from somewhere else.

199998

We were sitting in some diner. Some damned diner that sat us past midnight. If I had been a doctor, which I was not then, and now, am not, I would have heard your heart beating irregularly, extracurricularly, spectacularly sadly, and beautifully, across that orange, vinyl wasteland.

"So now what?"

Your voice rose, a song, and I hung myself on that question mark.

In therapy, you repeated that question so much that Dr. Weisman had rolled her eyes, clapped her hands, and taken a long vacation to South Africa. Apartheid was easier to end than our relationship.

If I had opened my mouth, three little words might have tripped out truthfully.

I might have said "I love you."

Or, to put it another way, "It is over."

Again: "I can't deal."

Three truths trilling on the tip of my tongue, and all I could think of was your name.

I loved your name in blue inky hearts that I hid in the margins of my notes. Your name, esses lassoing on the end of neon-pink-post-its declaring your love at lunchtime.

Alyssa, downstairs in my striped shirt, lips red like Kool-Aid.

Alyssa, in a silk dress.

Alyssa, a sigh, a silence.

I watch myself get up and go.

199999

This is so bad that Journey can't fix it.

If I had only had a day-old, smashed-up cigarette, I would not have met you and yours. Pretentious wild-tobacco-spilling-out-the-ends-rolled-up-with-hipster-hands. I could have saved myself this particular eight-ninety-five.

I would have bought a beer or two instead.

This is so bad that it is worse than the time I remembered at work that I had eaten the last box of Girl Scout cookies, and that none would be waiting for me when I got home that day at seven twenty nine. I spent the hours from two to five alternately mourning the Samoas, once-here-now-gone, and refreshing Ebay continuously (search: Girl Scout cookies). Futilely, because who doesn't want to savor their last Girl Scout cookies of the year?

I had been walking through an empty Wal-Mart parking lot, holding my entire life in one hand, while searching for a savior at the bottom of my bag with the other. Your tattooed wrist and ironic pink thumbnail got in my face, and you were Jesus.

You are in my phone as Hal, for a number of reasons.

This is so bad, it is worse than meeting the father of your too-old baby in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

You promised me that, during your one-hundred-forty-character talent show admission of love, I would not want to fall asleep once. You promised me that, if I spun around nine times on a Tuesday while drinking a Bloody Mary, I would find my true love in a week. At least.

You climbed in through the window and said, "Hey, come to the beach with me."
"But, Sadie, it's twenty-three-hundred."
"I don't care. Let's go."

We stood on the beach, then, seven hours before dawn. Our breath hung between us like an angel.

I threw some salt over my left shoulder.

You told me how you found true love, or the square root of one-hundred-forty-three, by taking four steps down a sandy hill and shouting.

The opposite of lame.

Tonight, in a very un-Monday sort of way, I stopped being lazy and went down to the Tribeca Barnes & Noble to hear Ben Greenman's last reading for Please Step Back.

If I think real hard, I can sort-of remember when Lauren Cerand had some copies up for grabs. I wish I'd gotten one, but if I had, I probably still wouldn't have read it (I have six books on rotation, currently...I'm not mad about it). So, anyway, I'm glad I got to see him read from the book for 5 minutes and 22 seconds (or less). From the little bit I heard, it sounds like Please Step Back is my kind of book. I don't know that the 1960s and 1970s, or funk music for that matter, get nearly enough love in fiction--all the polyester, maybe?

I like the idea of an era that's always seemed a little fluffy, to me, being juxtaposed against heavy, well-written, darkness and music (one of my top 5 favorite things in existence. ever). [Also, brains featured in the reading--just sayin'. If you're into brains, know that they are mentioned at least once in Please Step Back] Maybe. I only heard a little bit, but I promise I will get around to reading it before summer's over, because I know it's gonna be great.

Other things that made tonight the absolute opposite of lame:
+Lauren Cerand--the best--in tiger-stripes and great shoes (you can't see them in the pic, but they're there--blue and gold, I think). We split a burger and had an excellent conversation (where I learned much, as always). She also introduced me to some wonderful people (see below).
+Stealing(ish) hummus and carrots from my new style icon Lauren Elkin of Maitresse (Paris! Tokyo! New York! Hong Kong! Fabulous Dress!). Twitter 3D. Or something. I am going to Paris, ASAP.
+Meeting Ben Greenman (author of Please Step Back, if I didn't say that before). He asked me a lot of questions, but I'm not mad about it--flattered, actually.
+Todd of Opium magazine (which I must--and you must--take a look at soon), and Literary Deathmatch (amazing? apparently.), interviewing Greenman--hilarious. With a special appearance by Dan Rollman, last seen (by me) at Amanda Stern's Happy Ending Reading Series (I am an intern. Surprise!)
+My SHIRLEY TEMPLE! Clearly, this was the true highlight of the night, even if it was more soda water than anything else. Every time I drink one (only on special occasions, since kindergarten graduation), I'm reminded of being in Steak & Ale--where I had the first one. As a five-year-old, the cheesy wood paneling and hunting prints looked so classy--like an old gentleman's library...with a salad bar.

Then I came home and swabbed my mouth with some Q-Tips so that I can be added to the Be the Match bone marrow donor registry. You know, for mama.


Photo by Todd Zuniga, initially, and then I took it from Lux Lotus.

If you will, and I think you will.

Allow me to pause for a minute and tell you about all the Really Big Things that are happening to me. I should preface this post by saying that, for the past couple of years (since graduation, really), I've felt so static. Yes, I moved to New York. Yes, I started college. Yes, I went to London by myself. And on and on and on. INCREDIBLE things have always happened to me, or around me, and I'm certainly not trying to downplay my good fortune or anything like that.

But.

I have been stuck. I have the occasional great class, a wonderful advisor and an off-and-on appreciation of just about everything I see. But still, I've always felt like nothing was happening. Despite all my efforts to be proactive and get things going, I could never pick the thing (or things) that I was good at. I could never get busy enough, or care enough, to really push myself. As much as I stressed, I was totally taking it easy and not even exploring my potential. Gosh, that sounds egotistical. Here's another bit of ego: I'm good at publicity. I'm a good writer and, with time, I'll be understanding obscure literary references with the best of them.

Now, though, I am ecstatic. My life is moving so fast, and I have at least the next few months FULL of things to keep me occupied. My plane for home leaves in about five hours, and I'm planning to see a lot of friends, some old teachers, and talk to my daddy about money (scary). There will also be LOTS of reading (Lee and Gruber, specifically), and a fair amount of writing (outlining the 4 or so Woolf papers that sprung into my head at the Conference, publicity write-ups, and some data searches).

I have so much to say about the Woolf Conference. It was my first one, and I'm SO SO SO SO grateful that I had the opportunity to attend, to give a paper (a little one, but still), and to meet so many amazing people. If anyone would have told me even a month ago that I would have met the Woolfs, Katherine Lanpher, many random Woolf scholars and been able to use the phrase "on lock" and mean it---I would've laughed. Actually, I would've rolled my eyes, but whatever. I'm trying to not go into too much detail, because I'll just start gushing in a completely not-cute way. BUT--it was my first semi-independent publicity endeavor and it went AMAZINGLY well (how well? check back soon.).

As bummed as I am that it's over, I'm completely jazzed and ready for my junior year (scary) of college, for study abroad, for Woolf 2010, for EVERYTHING--even the bad stuff.

I'm kind of the funniest person on Earth.

Why won't you let me
Be great!!!!

I've been thinking of
Raps
Beats
Clothes
Videos
Stage Designs and
Philosophies.

I always feel
My best work
Is my next work.

I've made some
Good choices
And some Mistakes.

I've been loved and
Hated
I've been hailed and
Ridiculed

I've been attacked for being
Me.
For being bright red
In a
Grey
World

I am Nuclear Energy
When encapsulated in an idea
Or box
Like a Stage
or
Shoe Design
I CREATE MAGIC

Put this in the magazine: There's nothing more to be said about music. I'm the fucking end-all, be-all of music. I know what I'm doing. I did 808s in three weeks. I got it. It's on cruise control. . . . Man, we talked about music for God knows how long! Now let's talk about how my fucking sweater didn't come back right from Korea. That's what's interesting me.

-K. West, The Fucking End-All, Be-All of Music

"Link Love"--OUP placeholder

These are little things I've written for my internship at Oxford University Press. I love them over there!

Excerpt from Finish Rich: Creating a financial plan
Excerpt from Finish Rich: Common money mistakes
Scandal & Civility quiz
As-yet-untitled Mythology post

"Kew Gardens" and the (Un)Importance of Words

While I was reading "Kew Gardens," I must've listened to over a dozen different songs. I can't tell you what any of them wee, except that "I Am the Walrus" is coo-coo-coochoo-ing its way into my ears right now. The words don't matter, they just provide a backdrop for my thoughts.

In "Kew Gardens," several different couples go by. They all have something in common--they aren't there for the words, but they aren't there for the flowers either. I don't imagine that anyone really goes to Kew Gardens for the flowers though they are quite spectacular. Unless you're a botanist, the Gardens themselves simply provide the background for whatever conversation or introspection you might be engaging in that day. In "Kew Gardens," Woolf seems to be suggesting that the words passing between the couples are as unimportant to them as the flowers of Kew Gardens.

The first couple, a husband and wife, are so preoccupied with "thinking of the past" (85) that their children don't warrant any attention other than an occasional head-turn from the woman (84). The man thinks back to a time in the Gardens where one of the most important decisions of his life was made. Lily's answer to his marriage proposal, the actual "yes" or "no," isn't what the man notices. Instead of the words themselves, he hangs all of his hope on an aimless dragonfly who "went round and round: it never settled anywhere." (85) His wife, lost in thoughts of her past, remembers a time when an action, a kiss from an old woman, affected her more deeply than words ever could--"the mother of all my kisses all my life." (85) The words that pass between the couple, these "falling words," (87) between all the couples, seem to have all the importance of strangers exchanging small-talk about the weather. They're the soundtrack of a walk through Kew Gardens, but the important things are the ghosts of the past, all the might-have-beens and actions of the moments that really affect us. Woolf seems to be suggesting that words, though a necessary aspect of life, prevent us from fully reflecting on our thoughts, and startle us awake (87) to remind us of the canyon that exists between "one's happiness, one's reality." (85)