come sweeten every afternoon

Back from a week-long whirlwind of a time in Marion, after an impulsive urge to go nurse my girl back to good health following her wisdom teeth extraction. Wouldn’t you know, I spent the whole time watching chick flicks with her family, trying to envision a music video for R. Kelly’s “Real Talk”, and eating Raisinets. My last night there was one of the best (and blurriest) memories I’ve got: taking notes on Ally McBeal, perfecting my topping-from-the-bottom technique, and an enthusiastic (if abandoned) effort at making a fanvid. None of these are things I ever counted on having with M. Neither was our six a.m. string of promises that still has my head spinning. No sleep that night, and I broke my no-tears resolution five minutes after we said goodbye, but these are good things. Every time I regain my footing, this girl trips me up again – promising things I’d stopped believing were within my reach, smashing down the walls I’ve spent years constructing, making me blush months after I thought we’d done everything two girls in love can do. She lets me sing Angel’s parts when we listen to Rent together. She serenades me with James Taylor in her sleep, and has the sweetest sleepy morning voice. She asks so many questions, she’s charmed my grandmother completely, she chats with cafeteria workers about cultural appropriation and raps really hotly, if rarely. She makes me want to write stupid love songs, and is teaching me to play guitar so that maybe someday I can find some other way to tell her all of this. She’s the bravest, kindest, warmest thing in my world, and even if all these hopes fall through, I flat-out refuse to lose her. I'm wearing her sleepshirt now, and it smells like her sweat and smoke and cologne. It also smells like my cat's breath, from where he licked it just a minute ago. It's a testament to my good mood - and my devotion to Sal - that I find this charming, rather than frustrating. Still, my cat's breath is really, really bad. Some of you can testify to this. Do they make mentholated catnip or something? It seems worth looking into. . .

New Hampshire primaries tonight. Ashley and I made cookies and ate apples with warm caramel and shouted my dad down when he dissed Hillary Clinton. Then we got grumpy when Hillary actually won, after hours spent pleading for an Obama win and trying to spot Chuck Norris at the Huckabee headquarters. Dad sat in his armchair, telling us that the right wing will be collapsed in twenty years, that the Dixie’s already fallen through, that one night’s votes won’t mean shit by next week, but I’m not fooled: history is happening right now, and I’m nothing if not a part of it. This year’s going to be full of change, and all I can do is stumble forward and embrace everything that’s coming my way (and, um, donate to Obama's campaign, apparently). Tomorrow, there will be a double-feature with Ashley, my number-one anchor in Erie. Next Monday, I’ll start my last semester of school in Asheville. Next week, I’ll start EMDR treatment with Paula You-Can-Cope. Next month, I’ll learn which cities are ready to welcome me next autumn. This year, the whole world is going to be shocked by our capacity for change – at least, that’s my prediction. I’ve already surprised myself so much in 2008, and we’re only eight days in. Bic Runga’s about to sing me to sleep, and I can hear the roof creaking from all the rain that might be snow by the time I wake tomorrow. I think I’m finally, finally ready for what I've got.

What does one wear that's apropos for a party that's also a crime?

Here's the thing: I uploaded about three thousand pictures to post here, then never got around to posting them. Meanwhile, I just finished my year-in-review survey, and came on here to post it, only to find these pictures waiting in a sad Blogger limbo. So what you are getting here is a whole lot of pictures with no captions at all, and then a massive survey.

Happy new year, everyone.










And now, a look back at 2007!

1. What did you do in 2007 that you'd never done before?
Public readings – four of them, all nervewracking and absolutely worth it, especially the one at Malaprop’s. Made friends with my favorite professors, finally. Became a dog person! Dogsat – and became one half of the best dogsitting duo Asheville has ever seen. Watched an entire television series with a lover (which sounds silly, but I’ve always wanted to do that, and never had the chance, ‘til this year, when Marshall and I watched three). Learned to play guitar – or started learning, at any rate. Poppers, thanks to Brian Kinney’s bad influence. Introduced my grandmother to a girlfriend! Met Rue McClanahan, of Golden Girls fame. Took a tour of David Hopes’s garden. Wrote my creative thesis and actually felt pretty proud, all things considered. Finally read Mrs. Dalloway and Madame Bovary, and, like, fifty other things I felt like an idiot for never having read before. Underwent a femme renaissance, complete with perfume, Lip Venom, and lots of dangly earrings. Rocked comps. Attended a Gay Day – and rode a real rollercoaster for the first time, actually, at Cedar Point, and LOVED it. And was propositioned by a dyke working at a gas station in Sandusky, which is a first. Also, brilliantly thwarted a pick-up attempt made by an aging lesbian in a McDonald’s parking lot. Decided between bloodplay and watersports, once and for all. Repaired things with my estranged grandparents. Went for counseling at OurVoice, which was terrifying. Lived with a lover, if only for a month or so at a time. Regained a whole lot of faith in myself.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
You know, my resolutions are always the same: “Tell the truth, love at each opportunity, and try not to fuck up too badly.” And for once, I think I did well by myself. I wanted to be braver, too, which I’ve made a decent start on. I suppose it’s time for some new resolutions, so here goes: I’m not going to treat myself in ways I’d never stand for someone else to treat me – at least, that’s the idea. I’ll be a better friend, too, and perhaps less of a recluse. I’ll learn EMDR and EFT and start cleaning myself up again. And hopefully – hopefully! – I’ll start anew in another city, and start grad school.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No one too close, but Adrienne just had a baby boy named Spencer, and we were really close for a while, there.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

As for people, no one too close, thank goodness – my Grandma Betty and Papa Harry had close calls, but are better now. My great-uncle Joe died, and I miss the way he used to dance with his wife at family gatherings, even though it kind of embarrassed us kids for a while, there. The worst was when my parents put Spunky down. He was eighteen, so it wasn’t a total surprise, but that cat was the one who knew all my secrets, who saw me through everything from age four on, and I always sort of thought that, since he’d lived so long, he just might be immortal. I couldn’t be here when he died, and I don’t think I’ll ever wholly forgive myself for that.

5. What countries did you visit?
None. God, that’s sad.

6. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?
A lasting sense of security. That’s gonna take some real work, but I’m up for it.

7. What date from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
October 6th, because my misguided therapist insisted upon calling it my “trauma anniversary.” I wrote a letter to myself to remind me of all the good that had come out of the year, and then I went with Marshall and her dad and Denise to shop for shoes and stomp grapes at the Winery. October 19th, another anniversary, this one a whole lot happier – we made a weekend of it, buying flowers and drinking red wine and making love to the Boys on the Side soundtrack, which is one of my favorite things ever. I don’t remember many dates, really, but I remember the days attached to them so well, and don’t think I’ll forget much of it, in the end.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I can think of lots of abstract accomplishments, but I’ll keep it concrete: pulling together a thesis I’m actually pretty proud of. And let’s not forget having sex in my professor’s car. And the library. And my favorite Karpen classroom. . .

9. What was your biggest failure?
Letting myself get to a point where I was nearly hospitalized, which meant my parents had to find out how bad things really were.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Aside from the hospitalization business (and the five therapists I’ve been through this calendar year), there’s been a string of inexplicable fainting spells that I’m trying to work out now. Nothing too serious, though, which is lucky.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Oh, God. Um. All the books I bought this year, including the ones for classes.

12. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Going back to the Asheboro Zoo. Tri-generational outings with my mom and grandmother, who set each other off laughing like no one I've ever seen. Watching the Harry Potter movies with Marshall, all curled-up in Lori’s bed with Belly at our feet. Being 21. SEEING HANSON IN CONCERT, FINALLY. Dogsitting, and all the domesticity that went along with it. Our brand-new lit professor, who unwittingly inspired my femme awakening. New shoes and fragrances and earrings and, oh god, the Body Shop. Shit. Meeting my little brother’s girlfriend, who’s managed to live up to all my high standards. Visits from family – mine and Marshall’s both. Going back to the Apple Festival in Hendersonville. Talking to Chris Pureka again, and having her remember me. Reuniting with Young Steven, my favorite fag in this whole world, for Gay Day at Cedar Point, and connecting as if we’d never been apart. Any mention of dinosaurs, as always. Harry Potter things, especially the fifth movie! Slash, slash, slash. Nights out at LaRue’s, with the best company I could ever hope to keep. Nights up late, drinking with my brother and doing the Cha-Cha Slide in our living room. Cookies and cocoa with Ashley. Long walks with Belly and Boudreaux, and a long, lazy summer that made me wish I could stop time.

13. What songs will always remind you of 2007?
Get ready for the most embarrassing list ever. McFly’s “All About You,” which we sang a capella whilst dancing on the kitchen tiles, just like the song says. Luther Vandross’s “Mistletoe Jam” and the Dolly Parton/Rod Stewart version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” remind me of the early, unforgettable Christmas I had in Lori’s Loveshack. Tila Tequila’s “Fuck Ya Man,” which my brother and I just performed within earshot of my grandmother. “Come Undone” by Duran Duran. Regrettably, “Gloomy Sunday” lives up to all the urban legends it’s inspired, and still, I can’t stop listening to it on certain lonely afternoons. Justin Timberlake’s “FutureSex/LoveSounds” was a key soundtrack this year, along with the greatest hits of James Taylor and Jim Croce. Matthew Luke Sandoval’s YouTube cover of “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go” makes my throat catch every time. “Georgy Girl” by the Seekers. Heather Small’s “Proud,” the most empowering song this world has ever seen – except, perhaps, for Gloria Gaynor’s “I Am What I Am!” And, of course, Hanson’s “The Walk” is one of the best albums ever released. And T-Pain's "I'm Sprung" is the love song of the year, as far as I'm concerned.

14. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Singing karaoke, feeling safe, taking pictures.

15. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Being so damn touch-and-go all the time.

16. How did you spend Christmas?
Woke up early to practice guitar with my grandma as my first non-Marshall audience, played ‘til my fingertips were raw, then took a shower and practiced some more. Had lunch with the family, then opened presents, surprised my father by singing and playing guitar (he didn’t know I was learning). Kamal came over, and all of us had dinner, then went to see Charlie Wilson’s War, where I got to meet Kamal’s girlfriend. Caught up with my favorite cousin and Jana, and spoke with Marshall’s Uncle Barry, who told me a really adorable story about when she was a little girl.

17. Did you fall in love in 2007?
Every fucking day, and that’s the goddamn truth.

18. How many one-night stands?
Nil.

19. What was your favorite TV program?
Queer As Folk should count, since I watched it all over again this year, but since that’s probably cheating, I’ll admit that I’ve got a huge soft spot for Ally McBeal. And if that’s cheating, too, well, Weeds is deliciously addictive, and that’s current enough to count!

20. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Just Jason, I think.

21. What was the best book you read?
Now is the Hour by Tom Spanbauer certainly moved me most, and his The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon pushed him right to my top three favorite living writers. Andre Aciman’s Call Me By Your Name, Chang-rae Lee’s A Gesture Life, and Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union are all close contenders. Actually, I can think of at least another dozen books that should make this list. It was a good year in books for me, to be sure.

22. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Tila Tequila.

23. What did you want and get?
So, so much. But I feel like I’ve exhausted most of these answers elsewhere, so I’ll spare you all this much.

24. What did you want and not get?
To be better than I am. But I mean, it’s slow going. I get that.

25. What was your favorite film of this year?
The History Boys, without question.

26. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Kicked it off by drinking delicious champagne with Marshall, Lori, and Brenna; recounting how-we-met stories. Met up with Erin and Joe and officially turned 21 in someone’s car on the way to Scandals, where I got drunk on Vodka Collinses and danced my ass off to some hot beats. Some stranger drove us home, in exchange for a little company, so we hung out ‘til way-late at Erin’s – but I still managed to drag my ass to my ten a.m. Humanities 414 class! I received an e-mail from Dr. Hobby with the subject line “Perfect,” which read: “Relish today. You are perfect. I worship and praise your greatness on this most sacred of days.” Marshall gave me all kinds of sweet presents and affection, and we had a little love-in before she blindfolded me and took me to meet Jana and Emily for dinner. Afterwards, we definitely went over to Jana’s and proceeded to sift through books on artistic cats while Emily fell asleep. It was so much better than I am making it sound, which means a lot, since I’d generally rather avoid the whole birthday game. This one went perfectly; I just hope next year’s can measure up.

27. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
More Friends of Dorothy.

28. What kept you sane?
Well, Marshall, definitely. Phone calls with my mother, dishing with Jana, and Monday night phone dates with Young Steven. The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook. My cat, even if I hardly ever get to see the little guy. Visualizations involving whales.

29. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Last year, I answered, “Barack Obama and Bea Arthur,” proving how little changes, sometimes. Mary-Louise Parker just might top this year’s list, though.

30. Who did you miss?
Steven, DJ, Danny, and the other Friends of Dorothy. Brenna, actually, and Boudreaux, the best little dog I’ve ever known. Neal, who belongs in a category of his own, somehow. My Papa Harry, who’s so far gone after his latest stroke that it’s hard to remember how lively and aware he used to be. My family, when I was away; my friends, when I was back in Erie. Not nearly as many people as usual, though, which might be sad, except that I had a lot of letting go to do, and I’m better off, this way.

31. How will you be spending New Year’s Eve?
I’ll be joining my girl at her mom’s house in Marion, where we’ll skip out on traditional festivities so that she can recover from her wisdom teeth extraction, which she’s having done that day. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a kiss at midnight which she’ll probably be too drugged-up to even feel. Needless to say, I can’t wait. This coming year is going to be fantastic, I can feel it.

32. Who was the best new person you met?
Ooh, tough one. I might have to say Valerie, if only because she makes my baby brother so obviously happy, and I’ve never seen him lit-up like this before, in all his nineteen years. And she's been scouring my Slingshot organizer since she's been here, and now I can give her the extra copy I'd ordered just-in-case! So maybe she's more radical than I'd counted on. Oh! And Erin and Joe. And Stephen, Marshall’s boy from back home, who immediately treated me like a lifelong friend. And, if we are counting professors – well, I’m not. Heaven knows I’ve rambled on enough, by now.

33. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007.
These lessons get harder to come up with every year, and it’s not that I’m learning less, just that it’s all grown so complicated and hard to articulate. Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot, but I’ve got my work cut out for me in 2008.

34. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
“I think Amelia had it okay.
She had a one in a million bad day
with her eyes in the clouds,
the clouds in her eyes, in a big wide sky;
Expecting to fly
doesn't sound so bad to me.”

-“Thinking Amelia” by Deb Talan

and if you can get it, grab as much as you can

It's been a while, friends, and believe you me, I'd rather be posting here than formatting my thesis (which has proven more difficult than it really needed to be). But rest assured: right now, I am finishing my very last assignment of the semester. And once that's through, well, you can bet I'll be back to posting pictures and open letters and accounts of days which I hope will be quite uneventful in the best of ways. Last week, Marshall and I moved back into our professor's house to dogsit for Miss Isabel, who misses her owner something awful.

Yesterday, we went on a tightly-budgeted-but-extravagant-in-its-way Christmas shopping spree, where we took a picture with Santa Claus, then bought each other silky holiday pajamas and Christmas cookie dough and the tackiest tinsel mini-tree we could find, with some truly ugly ornaments to adorn it. When we got home, we spread the branches out a little and hung the ornaments, then plugged in the pre-strung lights. Wouldn't you know it? The tree looks truly pretty when it's all plugged-in, given the proper lighting. I am alternating between hot salsa beats and Christmas songs covered by pop stars, and waiting for my girl to get home from work, and putting off this last bit of schoolwork to read poetry. I need to get back to work, so I can be through, already, but first, I thought I'd share a poem with y'all. It's from a chapbook I stole from William Matthews' son (!!!) when he visited my seminar class. I feel a little guilty for keeping the book, since I only intended to borrow it, but I just can't seem to give it up. Luckily, I'm getting much better at giving up all the things I've outgrown, the ones that stopped doing me any bit of good ages ago, but which I'd held onto anyway. This is a good time for that, I'm realizing. All I need is right here, or else on its way. Why look any further, when I've got shelves of Lori's books surrounding me, fuzzy socks and a sweet dog napping at my feet, a lovely girl coming home to me and friends who withstand every mood swing and missed connection?

Anyway, that poem. It's called "Love," and was written by Matthew Dickman. Enjoy!

We fall in love at weddings and auctions, over glasses
of wine in Italian restaurants where plastic grapes hang
on the lattice, our bodies throb
in the checkout line, the bus stop, at basketball games
and we can’t keep our hands off each other
until we can—
so we turn to rubber masks and handcuffs,
falling in love again.
We go to movies and sit in the air conditioned dark
with strangers who are in love
with heroes like Peter Parker
who loves a girl he can’t have
because he loves saving the world in red and blue tights
more than he would love to have her ankles wrapped around
his waist or his tongue between her legs.
While we watch films
in which famous people play famous people
who experience pain,
the boy who sold us popcorn loves the girl
who sold us our tickets
and stares at the runs in her stockings
every night,
even though she is in love
with the skinny kid who sold her cigarettes at the 7-11,
and if the world had any compassion
it would let the two of them pass
a Marlboro Light back and forth
until their fingers eventually touched, their mouths
sucking and blowing.
If the world knew how
the light bulb loved the socket
then we would all be better off.
We could all dive head first into the sticky parts.
We could make sweat a religion
and praise the holiness of smelliness.

I am going to stop here,
on this dark night,
on this country road,
where country songs
come from, and kiss her, this woman, below the trees
which are below the stars,
which are below desire.
There is a music to it, I hear it.
Johnny Rotten, Biggie Smalls, Johan Sebastian Bach, I don’t care
what they say—
I loved you the way my mouth loves teeth,
the way a boy I know would risk it all for a purple dinosaur,
who, truth be known, loved him.

In the Midwest, fields of corn are in love
with a scarecrow, his potato-sack head
and straw body, hanging out among the dog-eared stalks
like a farm-Christ full of love.

Turning on the radio I hear
how AM loves FM the way my mother loved Elvis
whose hips all young girls loved, sitting around the television
in a poodle skirt and bobby socks.
He LOVED ME TENDER so much
that I was born after a long night of Black-Russians
and Canasta while “Jailhouse Rock” rocked.

Stamps love envelopes, the licking proves it—
just look at my dog
who obviously loves himself with an intensity
no human being could sustain, though you can’t say
we don’t try.

In High school I once cruised
a MacDonald’s drive-thru butt-naked
on a dare from a beautiful Sophomore,
only to be swallowed up by a grief
born from super-size or no super-size.

Years later I met a woman
named Heavy Metal Goddess
at a party where she brought her husband,
leading him through the dance floor by a leash,
while in Texas cockroaches love with such abandon
that they wear their skeletons on the outside.

Once a baby lizard loved me so completely,
he moved into my apartment and died of hunger.

No one loves war,
but I know a man
who loves tanks so much he wishes he had one
to pick up the groceries, drive his wife to work,
drop his daughter off at school with her Little Mermaid
lunch box, a note hidden inside
next to the apple, folded
with a love that can be translated into any language: I HOPE
YOU DO NOT SUFFER.

An open letter to a savior, of sorts.

Dear Neil:

Is that how you spell your name? I have to go with sheer probability on this one; it is the more common spelling, after all. Still, you seem like more of a “Neal” to me – something softer, stranger, a tad bit girlier. I’ll never know how you spell your name, just like I’ll never be able to send this letter, but I’m writing it anyway, because I miss you. Funny, isn’t it? I only knew you for six nights. But I’m listening to Diana Krall tonight – “Narrow Daylight”, which I know is your favorite – and I had this thought that my life glimmers more since meeting you. It’s subtle, sure, but also omnipresent – I think of you on cool nights when the wind plays at the hem of my skirt, when I cross polished lobbies or see flashes of piped neon, when Delilah plays Bette Midler.

I remember the first time we met, at Jeanne’s wine bar, the way you cooed, “Ooh, a lesbian. Have a seat, girl,” and scooted so that I could move right into the middle of things, as if I belonged there. It was really only a few weeks since I’d been fucked over; it was the first time I’d really had to walk around alone since, getting hit on by burly middle-aged men, feeling exposed and threatened, and you didn’t even know, but you let me slip right in as if I were brave and bold like you, as if what I’d weathered made me tougher, more intriguing, like you were. You believed all of that, and said it so often that the other guys began to believe it, too, and it was this lie you all passed around until I gave myself over to it. I wore my skirts shorter, sang saucy renditions of boy-band melodies, sipped cosmopolitans and danced to bad hip-hop tracks in the club. I became, for six days, someone who wasn’t terrified and lonely and frightfully inhibited. And sure, it could only last for that week, but I haven’t forgotten, and I won’t, what it was to be free that way, to be so easy and wild and fun, for once.

So I think, every day, of you: feeding me the maraschino cherries you stole from the other guys’ drinks; dragging me onto the dance floor when “Buttons” came on; the way your skin shone almost blue under the lights, there, and your insistence that you were really black, just albino, which later turned out, improbably, to be true. The way you requested “The Rose” from the flamboyant piano man, and we danced cheek-to-cheek, and passing women stopped to watch us, to snap pictures, and we whispered as we moved, slowly now, smiling so hard that our pressed cheeks lost their color as we danced. The way you called me “kitten” and walked me to my room at the end of the night, like a perfect gentleman; the way you wanted to set me up with your hockey-playing, Home Depot-employed friend Kathy, and spoke of adopting me as if it were really an option. The way you laughed, trilling and so loud, so fabulous, that I could hear you from clear across the ship. The shock you mustered when I reenacted my latest gynecologist appointment, and the way we swapped wild stories, acting appropriately scandalized even as passersby confused our communion for a harder, messier kind of love. I wouldn’t trade those nights for anything. It sounds cliché, but that’s okay, I think, because it’s true; because you’ll never read this, never know how inadequate these words are. Because I have to put this out there, just in case you’re not lost to me forever. You live in Toronto. Your boyfriend’s name is Howie. You frequent hockey games and think that white Calvin Klein briefs are the hottest thing a man can wear. Perhaps these details will lead me to you again; maybe they’ll just bring you back to me on nights like this, when I stay up later than I mean to, when I feel sad and scared but full, somehow, and better off, because I had you for six nights, and in a world where that can happen, I can’t quite lose hope.

‘Til we meet again, darling,

Jen.

see, I'd give you the stars from the bruised evenin' sky and a crown of jewels for your head, now.

This post might be a little bit nauseating, but as this is my blog, and as it is my unofficial anniversary with Marshall - and as happy occasions have been harder to come by, as of late - I'm going for it. Be warned .


One year ago, I had one of the most eventful days of my life. Allow me to set the scene: Sal got neutered by a vet who pronounced his name "Saul," Marshall cried in front of me for the second time ever (the first being at a showing of Brokeback Mountain), my American Lit professor said I had to pretend Walt Whitman was tagging along with me for the entire weekend and then write a poem about it, Marshall wore a skirt, we went to see Gilgamesh downtown, Marshall did a mad hot rap for me, I said "I love you" to her for the last time it would ever come off as platonic. And then she stayed the night with me, after all our friends had cleared the room. She put on two pairs of socks, then valiantly kept Sal from attacking my toes during the night, distracting him with her own feet. We whispered admissions - that we'd been looking forward to the night all week, that we were afraid of becoming bad friends to each other. Finally, we got down to it: Marshall revealed that she wanted me, and I followed suit. And then we agreed that nothing could come of it, because we're both terrible at relationships and besides, we didn't want to ruin our friendship.

And then she kissed me anyway, brave girl that she is. And that, my friends, is how all this came to be. One year, and it's been absolutely incredible, and full of exciting things, like Blankets (my giraffe),

Belly and Boudreaux,
bathtimes,
blizzards (by Asheville's standards, at any rate),
bare feet,
Brian Lee's relationship advice and earnest attempts at photography,
blankets (which Marshall's fond of hiding beneath, thus becoming the Covermonster),
babies,

and being far too famous for our own good.

All this, plus a whole lot of things which don't begin with the letter B. It's been a year, folks, and while I still worry that I'm toxic, I've learned not to let it keep me from loving. Not that I could exactly help it, since I've been falling for this girl since I saw her sitting alone at breakfast one morning, poring through her schoolbooks and oblivious to my blatant stares. It's still kind of a wonder that we ever got together at all, and it was never supposed to become a relationship, much less a love thing, but I'm not a bit shocked that it's gone on this long. Like I'd let go of a girl who calls me 'applejack' and serenades me with James Taylor in her sleep!

Now I'm off to continue our celebration, which started with a bottle of red wine and the Boys on the Side soundtrack (which should be a lesbian staple, by the way) last night, and has gone on all day, in that low-key, lovey-dovey way we tend to do things. Thanks for enduring this post, everyone; and thanks for enduring my crazed condition this year, Copper. I've got all I need, right here, and I'd do well to remember this more often.

don't you see, baby? this is perfection.

Last night was a swinging Virgo party, hosted by Reggie, where Marshall and I got to serve some of the most fabulous people I've ever met. One, a fifty-something queen who does hair and reads tarot cards, told us how to live our lives right, and made it all sound so easy. Another, a very strict-seeming lesbian astrophysicist, gave us advice about our credit ratings and offered to let us catsit sometime. When someone put Shakira on and Marshall wouldn't dance with me, I befriended a riot of a woman named Susan, and we kicked off our shoes and danced like fools in the kitchen. Later on, though, when Sarah McLachlan came on, Marshall indulged my dance fever and it was perfect. We got to meet a really sweet kitty who has feline AIDS, and made all sorts of new friends, and got to hang out more with Lori, whom we adore. And we got paid, which wasn't even really necessary, after all the fun we had.

Last week was an eleven-month anniversary, which we toasted with Marshall's mother and her best friend, Edie, at Tupelo Honey. It was a meeting with my new therapist (this one's number nine, if anyone's counting!), who is like Laura Ashley on uppers and thinks I need to listen to whale songs every night before bed. Shockingly, I love her, and think a change is on its way. I started a new medication, following a new, dubious diagnosis, but made my peace with my crazy shrink, who may or may not be a hack. An older dyke tried to pick me up in the McDonald's parking lot, in a really bizarre manner, and I could only pry my forearm from her grasp after blurting out that I was really, completely fucked up and had to get to therapy immediately. Seriously. I got an A in Poetics, after taking that incomplete and fretting all summer over the coursework; now I've just got to keep it together for my current classes, which shouldn't be hard, as I love all of them, and wish I could take them at least twice. I've been ordering too many earrings, and too many books, online, but it'll all be worth it when I receive my copy of Tennessee Williams's Notebooks this week! When fall break hits, I am going bra-shopping, and to the Asheboro Zoo, and no one is going to stop me.

Saint Nicholas, the brilliant man we met last night, said that we must be impeccable with our word, that "I" is one of the most important words in the language, because it includes the divinity that dwells within us, and that we should always be cautious about what promises we attach to "I." He said the promises to ourselves may be the most important, because if we don't keep them, we eventually lose our capacity to believe in ourselves, and then our word will always mean less. So here's a shot: I am going to get better. No, fuck that - I am getting better. I am going to get into the right grad school, and I am going to turn in a solid draft of my thesis very soon, and I am going to be good to myself in the process. Now that I've said it, I have to, see? I have to believe, anyway. So watch out, friends, because soon, I will be back, and I'll be better, this time. Promise.

which means i am either crazy or a werewolf

It's sad, but true, that one of the highlights of my week is Joey Comeau's "A Softer World" updates. This week's was just what I need, but still can't allow myself:

I'm going to start setting realistic goals for myself. I'm going to
skateboard every day for as long as the weather allows. I'm going to
practice picking locks more regularly. I'm going to improve my French.
I'm going to improve my Arabic. I'm going to learn to fight. I'm going
to live in a decommissioned submarine with my friends. Good morning,
Jeff. Ping. Are we out of toast? Ping. We'll have to send someone into
town. Ping. I'm going to start going out at night, dressed all in
black, with my hood up. I'm going to stand in the shadows where a lot
of people walk past. I'm going to encrypt my hard drive for fun. I'm
going to encrypt the words, "You do good work" and I'm going to send it
to every intelligence agency I can think of.

I'm going to play chess more. I'm going to live my life like it's a
chess game. No. I'm going to live my life like it's a game of rock
paper scissors. I'm going to sit very still in the park until I am
surrounded by pigeons and then I am going to leap up with my arms
outstretched and they will all take flight. I am going to do this to
teenagers in the food court, too. I am going to read books about
economics and apply those principles to my love life. I am going to
write thank you notes on nude photographs of myself and send them to my
heroes. You know what? Forget heroes. I'm going to send them to
strangers. To people who catch my eye. To beautiful broken future best
friends. That is a pretty good way to make friends I think, but maybe
I'm the wrong person to ask.

While I'm still young and healthy, I am going to make a video tape
where I am shaking my head sadly. This is for me to watch when I am old
and I regret everything. Regrets? Fuck you, future Joey. If they ever
make a biopic about me it will be that first dip on the roller-coaster
and it will last the whole movie, clutching the bar, screaming and
crying and terrified, with a belly full of tiny donuts. Today I feel
optimistic about tomorrow.

Things have gotten messy, and I spend too much time debating which would be worse: institutionalization in Hendersonville, or having to go back to Erie without finishing the semester. It's not as if I'd allow myself to take either option, but nor can I stop myself from weighing the two, as if to scare myself straight. Too much caffeine tonight, and not enough sleep. Tomorrow, there will be an oil change and essays on Yeats. Tonight, it's all about Ally McBeal and Dracula-inspired nightmares. Today, I gathered the nerve to e-mail the professor I've deified for three years; it was my first outreach, and probably the only one I've got courage for, but I can't help feeling proud, anyway. Yesterday, I wrote a short story about God and death and piano lessons; now, I'm working on a fiction piece, even though I despise writing fiction, because I want to tell a story about someone named Hannah and I don't know any real Hannahs well enough to write about. It's the first cool night of the season, the first time I got to wear a jacket out. I love this time of year, every year; fall is, once again, my favorite season, until spring comes along. It's good for me to sit and watch the seasons change; it's only a matter of time before I'm forced to follow suit.

she told me, 'baby, when you race today, just take my love along with you.'

Okay, so just a heads-up before I even get started: this is a picture-saturated post. I can't help myself. I just got my camera cord back, after long weeks of separation, and while I'm trying to exercise some restraint, it's been a really vivid, crazy time that I'd like to document, and I'm doing so here. Do people still have dial-up? If you do, this could take a while. Just be glad that I'm sparing you some scandalous video footage which would undoubtedly add years to the time this page must take to load. Anyway!

So, I'm back in Asheville, clearly, which I'm finally settled into, after a really long period of missing my family. When they left me here, after helping me move in, I completely broke down crying, and I didn't feel right again until, oh, some point weeks later. I still really miss them. Being back in Erie isn't the best thing for me, as we've established, but I've been having so many issues with security lately, and they were much more manageable when I had my family all around me, when I could run errands with my mother and drink and dance with my kid brother and continue a still-not-right relationship with my father. Okay, that last part wasn't really much good, but even that beat being without all of them, really. I remember being in high school and thinking, "Okay, once I get through school and can pay my parents back, I'm not going to bother going home anymore except for funerals." And now that I am out of the house, and doing what I want, I find myself missing them so often, and for so many reasons; I've become such a family person. But I'm here now, and missing them is hard, but I couldn't appreciate them nearly so much if I still lived with them, if we still had to deal with all of the negotiations and screaming matches that made me want to run away before.

And 'here' happens to be pretty cozy, in fact. I'm finally in a single, which was long overdue, and while it's small, it's good to have my own room to come home to at the end of the night. Have a look!

And although I've drifted from most of the old crew, and I'm unwilling to pick up any new attachments when leaving here in May is bound to be hard enough, this happens to be a year of cool transfer students and no obligations, and I am totally down with that. Because of a housing shortage, the school stuck two transfers in the lounge of my building for the first week, and they happen to be too fucking great. They've since moved out, but we had a little last-night-in-the-lounge party with a very special guest:

Boudreaux was totally chill, and didn't bark or pee on the carpet or anything. This is part of what makes him my favorite dog, but not nearly all! The girl in the gray up there is named Liz; her identical twin, Kelly, is in the picture underneath. They are both really cute and lesbionic, and have the same laugh, and came from cool colleges in Massachusetts. This blows my mind, for some reason. They are not into fictional twincest, though, which is slightly disheartening but pretty understandable. And they are both Chris Pureka fans! What luck!


Below is Liz from Iowa, who is really cute, aww. She came with us to the Chris Pureka show, and afterwards, we hung out at the Waffle House, where we told our coming-out stories and laughed a whole lot and had a really awesome waitress. And Chris Pureka remembered me, hello! Another life dream crossed off my list!

That's Beck, whose hair is always flawless. She is gazing at Boudreaux, who is staring at Zack, whose hot legs are in the background.

Here's Zack with Lauren, the second awesome transfer student and former lounge-dweller. Lauren is one of the most adorable people in the world, for real, and she took me out of my misery one day without even knowing it when she interrupted a major angstfest and we watched Weeds. Here, Zack and Lauren are harmonizing on "Portions for Foxes." How do I even remember this? Because it was a good night.

Here's our little red rondette, where Brenna lives. We stayed here while we dogsat for Boudreaux, and it was a much-needed getaway.

Brenna's bed is up against a wall of windows, and the light in the mornings is just unbelievable. Also, Boudreaux is very needy and prone to climbing into bed when he's in need of cuddling.

We took him on a walk with Lori and her dog, Belly, and then got custard afterward. It was a good day. Here's evidence:



And then came the Hendersonville Apple Festival, which is the social event of the season.



I kept my goal for the day simple: I wanted a candy apple, and I wanted it to be good. And when I got it, well, Jana was around to document it. The next pictures are all hers, which explains why they're so good.





Marshall is, for some reason, obsessed with the Shrine Club people - you know, the ones who run the children's hospitals? So when the Shriners marched in the parade, she was totally blissed. Afterwards, I couldn't find her for a few minutes; when Jana and I did locate her, she was chatting up a pair of Shriners on lawn chairs. Why is my girlfriend so fucking endearing?

There was a rock museum in a weird basement location, which we found jsut as we were about to call it a day. It was a one-room endeavor, and most of the signs had critical misspellings, but that only added to the place's charm. There were even dinosaur eggs, which were probably laid by a hadrosaur, one of those duck-billed delights. And we got to touch the eggs!

And then there were comps, which you have to pass to graduate as a lit major, and which require memorization of a ridiculous amount of shit. Day One was on Friday, and Jana and I totally fucking rocked our exams. Afterwards, we decided that a bit of drinking was in order. This turned into a seven-hour extravaganza, held in Susan's house, where Marshall and I were dogsitting for Mojo, the sweet little puppy you'll see in some of these pictures.


That's him, right there. He's just a few months old, but he probably won't get much bigger. My cat weighs more than this little fellow; he's that tiny. And adorable, too! We fucking love Mojo, and will probably get to watch him again before long!

We had a very musical night once Marshall joined us: she found a pan flute to play on, and we took turns composing harmonica melodies to illustrate each situation that arose. Which got especially interesting when we got really drunk and impulsive. I got some of these songs captured on video, but they are way too incriminating to post here. Rest assured that you are not missing a whole lot, musically speaking, since none of us has a fucking clue how to play a harmonica.

Emily joined us, and managed to pose cutely in this picture before falling asleep.

This next picture is pretty much the cutest ever. It's also one of the few existing pictures where Mojo isn't all kinds of blurry, since he's in perpetual motion and tends to evade my attempts at photography.


We left Susan's this morning; she got back last night, but had so many fabulous stories of her time in L.A. that we ended up staying up late to hear them, and then staying over. Seriously, this year is all about dogsitting, and although that was unexpected, I'm finding myself turning into a dog enthusiast. I still miss my cat, though.

Now: I should be studying for Day Two of comps, or finishing Madame Bovary, or (god forbid) writing my own shit, since I've only got a month to get my seminar project together. But instead, I'm posting this, and watching Road the the White House on C-SPAN. Ah, well - it's a Sunday evening, and I'm worn-out and overheated, and there's a hellish week ahead, with comps and meetings and a blood test and so much therapy drama you wouldn't even believe it. (On Thursday, this bitch diagnosed me with Bipolar II and prescribed me Lithium in a ten-minute timespan, and she still refers to Marshall as 'Megan.' Fucking hack.) But for right now, I'm feeling all right, maybe more together than I've been all month. Which is not saying much, but it's something, and it's enough.