we always seem to need the help of someone else to mend that shelf.

Have just written a terribly shitty story about Greyhound stations and leaving and disconnection and doughnuts. It's worse than the pregnancy test story, and the grandma story, and everything else I've turned in so far, and what's worse: it's ten pages longer than those things. This means I will not be able to use it for one of my readings, and that I am about to make an idiot of myself in front of my impressive classmates and most encouraging professor. After the day I've had, though, it's kind of a triumph just getting it finished at all.

Had a whole different nightmare, last night, which ended in rape, but was surprising and awful and full of people I consider safe. It really threw me off, and so did something in a Shelley poem we read for class, and I've just been scattered and crazy and trying to hold it together, and not doing too well. The thought of next semester, with comps and senior seminar and physics and grad school applications and taking over Headwaters, is already exhausting me, which is totally unfair, since it's all exactly what I want. And I'll have my own room for it, looks like, and that will help.

Okay, my very sleepy girlfriend just called; she says she can't sleep 'til I come to bed, which is in the Willage, which is a very cold walk from here. So I need to get on that, now, since this is undoubtedly going to be the best part of my day: walking into her warm room, taking off my glasses and setting my alarm, being pulled into bed by this sweet, sleepy girl who makes these days shine, in spite of all my complaints. Goodnight; I'll have better news tomorrow, I promise.

better get out while you can.

Just finished Giovanni's Room, by James Baldwin, which blew my mind. Cried hard, of course - not only for David and Giovanni, but they were a good excuse. Fiction is always a good excuse, and maybe that's why I've been reading so much less of it. Things are too heavy and real right now to take that on.

It's my second day of bleeding, which is generally the day I have to skip classes and lie about. Made a proper sick day of it, magazine and ice cream and all, for half an hour, anyway, before I remembered how much I have to get done tonight and tomorrow. A twelve-page story for Lori's class - at a time when I feel I've got no stories - and papers and poetry, and there isn't enough sleep, and it isn't without nightmares, and I'm just exhausted. Saw my therapist today; she says we need to take a session to process all these dreams, to see if my subconscious has memories I can't access on my own. If it does, I'd rather leave them there, not drag them out and process them, but what else can I do? I'm not the only one affected, so it needs to stop.

I'm really trying to keep it together, and I've been pretty good about it while the people around me have had rough going, but once my reasons to stay strong are gone, I fall back into this too easily. Without the stress and distraction of academics, though, I have to deal with the really scary stuff, so this is definitely the best place for me right now. Still, it will be good to see my cats again, and my kid brother, and my parents. I feel sort of unmoored, right now, and a week of being with my family just might take care of that.

Am off to write critiques of some disappointing stories, then to get a start on my own, which is already disappointing me, though I haven't started writing it yet. Then closing the labs, then finishing my paper, then sleep, if I can get it. If I'm really lucky, I'll manage to talk to Young Steven tonight, and he'll remind me just how free and fabulous we're meant to be right now, he'll talk in that raised-eyebrow voice and I'll laugh 'til it hurts me and I'll remember just how good I have it. The people who save me in this way aren't really aware of it, I don't think - if they were, I couldn't bring myself to call them, couldn't let myself have what I need. Since when am I such a control freak? Why am I turning into Michelle Pfeiffer's character in One Fine Day, minus the cute dinosaur t-shirt and cute kid? I had a dream last night that I stole a kid from foster care and we took off running, in a British city somewhere. I guess I do spend a lot of time thinking about running away, even as I say this is where I need to be. And I guess I would like the company, someone whom I didn't ever have to ask, someone who would run as fast as I want to.

and it's almost too good to be true.

What a weekend! Yesterday, I went with Jeff, Chris, and Ali to The Vagina Monologues and watched Tristyn bring down the house (and Sharptooth act a fool in pigtails and pajamas). Then Marshall and her brother picked me and Jeff up, and we ventured to Pet Supermarket to say hi to Marshall’s future fire-belly toad, Enkidu. We spent some time hanging out with a crested gecko and Miami phase corn snake, admiring the appalling fishtank décor. After reluctantly leaving Marshall at Carol Belk Theatre, we let William experience the caf before rushing him back to see his sister's play. I love Marshall's brother, it should be said right now. He reminds me a lot of my own brother, the way he teases his father and talks about athletics and cars, the way he's such a boy, and so earnest and outgoing and funny. Little brothers!

I came back and wrote a poem about being felt up by Steve Orlen during The Poseidon Adventure, then went to dinner with Marshall's family. William wanted to see my room, and we ended up hanging out here, watching YouTube videos and looking at pictures while Marshall dozed on my bed. William and I woke her out of her delirium and all headed back to the Willage, where we had a sleepover. And then today, we had brunch together, and saw The Wrestling Season and had dinner again, this time with Marshall's mom, who is painfully sweet. Marshall's whole family is like that, somehow - they're so warm, and they laugh so much and all tell such funny stories, and they make me feel really welcome. I'm not used to having that with girlfriends' parents. I wish my family would be that way toward someone I was with - a girl, I mean, since they were all about Jason, even after he fucked me up. Maybe they'll get their chance, sometimes soon. Greg will think Marshall's fantastic, though, even if my parents are stand-offish. And once they meet this girl? There's no way they couldn't love her. Especially because she gave me Airborne tablets tonight.

Right now, Celine Dion is doing a premiere performance of some really shitty song. Jeff and Jordy and I have been waiting for this, and the song is disappointing, but bitch is looking much better than I expected from her, especially after her last memorable misstep. God, I love the Oscars. I can't help myself; even though I haven't seen half the movies that are up for awards, I still find myself gasping at glimpses of Meryl Streep and Leo DiCaprio. Luckily, we've seen a lot of both, tonight, and I've just finally seen the suicidal robot commercial, and so I feel like a winner. Even though I have not done a damn thing, in terms of work. I have so much work to do, and I actually want to do it all, but it's so intimidating how much has accumulated, and how well I want to do. I plan on trying hard to do this right: I can't afford to stress out anymore, not like I have been. I always get my things done and I always do well enough for my professors, if not for myself, and so there's no reason to get into that ugly angstfest mode that I'm so fond of.

Something I'm either worried or relieved about: how little I feel, generally, when Jason comes up. Tonight they played the Lucksmiths at dinner, and a K-Fed commercial was just on, and every day, there are dozens of things that vaguely remind me of him, but I'm not hung-up on any of it, nothing is ruined for me. It's not like it's been before - there are songs that remind me of Kara that I definitely can't let myself hear on a regular basis, you know? I'm usually so in touch with my memories, but it's as if I'm phasing Jason out entirely, wherever I can. Must be a defensive mechanism. I get so irritated by these brick walls I build up, but my therapist always says, "Isn't it wonderful, how you have all these parts of yourself that are working to protect you?" and I like that way of looking at it. Besides, I remember him enough when I'm asleep, it seems, and that's messing with my life enough. There are things I'm glad to forget, at this point.

Enough: I am happy tonight, and my life is full of beautiful things, and Jennifer Hudson is performing right now and she is so godawful beautiful that I can't stand it. There are people I miss tonight, and things I would have done differently, and I would welcome six more hours in each day, but this place I'm in and the people around me are just what I need, right now.

wise guys realize there's danger in emotional ties!

So, who guessed that The Wrestling Season would make me cry? Two and a half times, no less, because Kenny sees fit to break my heart in every show he's in. And it was fantastic that Brian Lee was there, and before the talkback he was reading about hate crimes and he was like, "I do not know this go on here still. Not in America." That man! Because before the show, he was trying to explain to some guy that it didn't feel right to call himself straight, which sounded like he was coming out. After the guy walked off, Brian said, "I think my friend catch the wrong meaning in what I say," and I had to agree. Oh, Brian.

We ended up going to the cast party - Jeff and Jordy and Marshall and Chris and I - and having a really incredible time. Spent a long time on the couch with Chris, guarding our drinks and encouraging him to get it, get it. Once he gathered up the nerve, I had to keep accosting him in the bathroom to find out what was happening; it was this ridiculous broadcast. Carl kept saying, "Jen, I would so do you if you were straight," followed closely by, "Why the hell did you cut your hair? Grow it back!" Validation! Each time a straight guy tells me to grow my hair back, it feels unspeakably good. Jeff and I laughed a ridiculous amount while sharing a bitch drink "like a shake," but without two straws. Marshall and I passed out in my room before we could even get ready for bed, before we could trek back to the Willage. And she spent about two hours waking up this morning, sorting through all the bad dreams I had last night. Bad dreams - but no rape nightmares. It's a step up, I guess, or would be, if the dreams hadn't shaken me so much.

My professor keeps messaging me to see if Marshall and I want to have dinner with him tonight, which is really nice, particularly because he knows I'm a headcase right now. The other day, I clung to his arm for a minute to keep from crying in the lit lobby area. This is not okay. I need to plan my way out of this bullshit.

So, here's the plan for today: take a really long, really hot shower; eat something warm; write my poetry event responses and my Maedchen in Uniform paper, finally; see The Vagina Monologues at three; see Marshall's family at some point; get my shit together. And anytime this plan is failing, or I start to feel like a failure, you know what I am gonna do?

Watch Wham!'s "Young Guns (Go For It)" video, which Robert introduced me to, and which is like George Michael's coming out party circa 1983. Please watch it - you'll be so much better for it.

but you hold tight to that old promise; you are waiting for the spring.

At least it's Friday. I'm currently in Rhodes-Robinson 142, trying to close it down. Another guy just walked in and asked if I was closing; I said, "I'm trying to," and he came in anyway and is now working across from me. Seriously, who are these people? I shouldn't complain, though, as I was late for work again and didn't get caught. My girlfriend's needs were more important to me than the computer lab's at four o'clock, though, so I feel no compunction. Until my boss reads this, that is, and my job is on the line. It's doubtful, though.

Speaking of Brian, he's definitely going with me and Chris to The Wrestling Season in less than an hour. This was a spur-of-the-moment decision; I was going to wait until Sunday, but I want to see it now, especially since Chris will be with me, and I can always go again with other friends (and Marshall's mother and brother!) on Sunday. You all know how much I love wrestling.

Something really weird just happened, which is indicative of a weird trend I've been picking up on lately. I was closing down a lab and a man came in and made no move to get on a computer. I told him sorry, the lab was closed, and he said, "Look at this article my friend just sent me over in that lab." And before I could even look at it, he started telling me about it, this S&M situation that had gone awry, where lines of consent had clearly been crossed, and how the courts were handling it. And he handed it to me and watched me read it, and I was so sketched-out at this point, and the descriptions in the article were awful, and he kept watching me, and I finally pretended to finish and was like, "Ooh, that's terrible; I need to go close seven other labs now." And the guy started talking about how sometimes, consent isn't a really clear thing at all. And I finally got out of there and just felt exhausted, you know? Like the night Grace gave me a ride to the Willage and wanted to discuss whether I knew any girls who had been raped while they were students at UNCA, and went on and on about how dangerous this world is, how much rape can fuck with the victim, and I was finally like, "I really dislike using the word 'victim;' it's really disempowering to someone who has already been violated, yeah?" and she still went on after that.

Last night, I had to use the lobby bathroom and was so anxious, checking the room out, taking one leg out of my jeans, just in case, listening so hard for any sound. I threw up, and when I walked out, I thought someone was there and had a panic attack. Of course, it was a television. Of course, I was in a fucking television lounge. I have watched that television before. What the fuck is my problem? And the nightmares continue. I cannot be this messy for this long. I have a counseling appointment on Monday, and thankfully, Anne Ponder hasn't tried to fire my therapist yet. Until then, I'm going to try to hide out for as much as possible, to stay alone and to get my work done. I'm already slipping, and lucky my professors either haven't noticed or aren't calling me out on it.

This morning, in Poetics, I was clearly a mess, writing pissed-off notes to myself instead of focusing on Chess's lecture, and Maggie wrote me a note saying, "I think you're amazing, Jen." I cried, of course. You people are too good to me.

I wish Sal was back here, that I had my attack kitten back and could curl up with him, could wake in the night to find him biting at my toes. I wish I had time to read MacNolia, or the latest issue of Vanity Fair, and I wish this migraine would go away so I could write. I wish my little brother were coming to visit, and I wish I'd really get sick, almost, so I'd have an excuse to just fucking stop everything that wasn't absolutely necessary. I don't want that, I know, but I'm starting to feel really unhinged. Which is why I'm blogging in RR 142 when I need to get down to 006. Right.

I'll be better next time I post. My apologies for Angstfest 2007 starting up before we've even hit March.

these seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days.

Better, now - things all got sorted out last night, and I trekked to the Willage and slept so, so well. No nightmares, for the first time in a long while. And today! The lecture on Lord Byron was brilliant, and Ali told us stories about mean things he did to his neighbors as a kid (the kids in his neighborhood, when mad at someone, used to yell, "Get off my property!"). And I submitted to Headwaters, since Lori gave me an extended deadline and a glare that made me incapable of arguing, and Jana and I went to the meeting with Bill Haggard about the firing of Maggie Weshner, and the administrators kept thanking us for our concern and admitting that, no, they've done nothing to deserve our trust. They don't seem too concerned about that, but I guess that's how they were able to fire her in the first place. Anyway, it's heartening to see so many people worked-up about this, and I'm jazzed about tomorrow's lecture walk-out. Ever since Anne Ponder shut down dining services in order to staff her Mountain Picnic that one time, I knew she was not to be trusted. I'm not really gratified to have this kind of proof, though. Also, I found that my therapist has a Facebook account. February has been full of first times, this year, which is just how I like it.

At Headwaters, we conceded really easily about which writing to accept - until we hit one about Walt Whitman, which we were divided on. Marshall's is in, and so are mine, and a lot of other pieces that I love, love, love. I called my mother excitedly to tell her, and she was not at all happy to hear that my family is not allowed to read my stories. Seriously, though? I'm protecting them. If they only knew. . .

Okay, another crisis night is in order, apparently. Or else, the crisis is over but the aftermath is due. At any rate, I have to go. Tomorrow is not going to be framed by this shit, I swear. Only one class, and then writing, and then work, and then writing, just like that. If I avoid people, then I can't go wrong.

and I'm full of fictions and fucking addictions, and I miss my mother.

Last night was rough, and I'm still anxious from it. Barely slept, but made it to Poetics, which Steve Orlen, a visiting poet, decided to teach today. This man is nuts - instead of taking questions, he glanced around the room and decided which students looked like they might have questions, and demanded that they ask him something. He did a reading here tonight, and kept interrupting the flow of his own poems to explain more about what he meant. It was endearing, but he was no Van Jordan, that's for sure.

Workshopped my pregnancy test story in Lori's class, which I had built up to be a disaster before I'd even passed my piece out. Everyone loved it; only two people suggested changes, and both of them were argued down by my other classmates. I'm still unhappy with it, but at least no one in the class thinks less of me for it. The entire time it was being discussed, I had my fingers and toes crossed, hoping that no one would ask, "Who's the father?" And of course, the kid next to me asked that, and luckily, I didn't have to answer because writers can't talk back. But honestly? That's a whole other fucking story that even I can't make funny. So I was glad when my classmates said it didn't matter that I didn't address that, because there's just no way. And as it was, there was a lot of laughter and a hush after I finished, and it went much better than it should have. And I have undeserved second chances at Headwaters and the UR reading. Whatever weird spirit is watching over me academically is fantastic and all, but I wish it would redirect its energies. Academics were the one solid thing I had to begin with; it's the rest of my life I'm not sure what to do with.

Next semester is going to be better. I'll have my own space, and a new start, and maybe I'll have my shit together then. Closer to, anyway. But for now, it's not even midterm, and I'm exhausted. But at least the things tiring me are all things I really love, things I've chosen in some way. So, once again, although I'm starting to feel like a parody of myself for saying it so much: I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

Now, off to watch more Top Design with Jana and Jeff. Wednesday nights are always such a necessary recovery; let's hope this one goes out easier than I'm anticipating.

sounding like an old cliché, but I can't stop feeling.

Today is not a winter-coat weather day, which is what a lot of my knock-on-wood wishes have been going for, I'll admit. This has been the mildest February I've had in years, and I'm lucky for that, but I need to be better, now, and sunshine sure would help. (Speaking of "sure would," I got a copy of Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio for only fifty cents last night, and one of the lit professors made notes in it! Which means that I'm about to embark on a creepy handwriting analysis quest to figure out whose book this is.)

Yesterday was four months since Marshall and I became official, and that's a relief, realzing that we've already gone through the hardest season together. Most of my romantic entanglements start up in the springtime, or the summer, when everything is alive and blooming and green and the world feels staggering in its potential. What I've got now started up in scarf-wearing season; all of the snow and slush, the process of watching things die or migrate, that's all been the backdrop to me&Marshall. I'm ready to get onto spring, where I'll be manic and wanting to skip through the BoGardens and blow dandelion seeds from the stem and wish on shooting stars that are actually just planes flying overhead. I'm much better when it's warmer, when the birds all come back.

It's been almost five months since London, so you'd think I'd be past all that shit, but it's only getting worse, in lots of ways. Crying jags following nightmares, moments where I stop and withdraw and hurt my lover in the process, all of these weird insecurities magnified through the lens of October. I think I'm a bad feminist for still feeling absolutely guilty and ashamed. I would like to talk to my counselor about this, except that that mean, you know, actually talking about what happened, which isn't high on my list of fun conversations, right now. I just want to get on with it. I just want to forget.

Spring break is soon, and I'll get to see my cats again, and my baby brother, and my parents, and my grandma. There's not much left in Erie for me, but what is there means everything. I wonder if (when?) my parents will move, and to where. I don't want to be far away from Grandma; I like best when she's living with us, watching Golden Girls with me and MTV2 with Greg, one hand brushing Spunky while the other throws a ball for Sal to catch. Visits from Ali are really good for me; we watch bad music ideos that make us feel nostalgic and I can tell him all of my anxieties and escapades knowing that he'll be amused and honest in his reactions, that nothing I can say will really shock him ever again. Even if we're not getting heavy, though, even if he just comes by wearing his tight vintage Batman Returns t-shirt and refugee blanket and rambles about hair product, I feel better just knowing that he's in my world. All of my friends are incredible, really, the ones who color my days here and the ones who are too far away for my tastes. I don't know how I lucked into this life, but I do realize how undeserved it all is. Really.

Steve Orlen is doing a reading here tomorrow night, and teaching my Poetics of Perception class tomorrow. I am thrilled for this, especially because it falls in the same week as The Vagina Monologues and Wrestling Season. And seeing Marshall's family, and needing to write a really good story for the Comfort reading, and Headwaters meetings, and Lord fucking Byronfest. And other things, too, almost all of which I'm looking ahead to, especially the world warming up again. This is good, you know? This is how coming out of winter is supposed to feel.

right in front of my face, my two lips can't describe it!

Wow! So, I just got back from the Van Jordan reading, which was, of course, incredible. If I had that voice, and that energy, I'd be less afraid in this world. But because my voice is stupid and girly and my energy is awkward as fuck, I was a wreck on the way to pick Van up at his hotel room. Maggie and I took him to the Atlanta Bread Company (while listening to lots of eighties music), where he insisted on paying for us, and we sat by the window and talked about Ohio and movie musicals and trashy romance novels and why people don't read poetry, and he got the same smoothie I did, and oh man, I love him. And then we took him to the Laurel Forum for the reading, which was mindblowing. I don't know how I'm supposed to write poetry for my Monday morning class after hearing Van read like that.

The past few days have been incredible, although admittedly, they've mostly been spent lying in Marshall's bed, doing reading and watching her favorite movie (and episodes of Taxi) and making phonecalls to our families and having half-awake conversations. This means, of course, that I've saved all of my important work until Sunday afternoon. For the weekend I've had, though? It was so worth it. Especially as I got to watch Donnie Darko with Ali and Jordy and Chris in the Video Lending Library (incidentally, one of the spots I've always wanted to have sex in but never thought I'd have the chance. . .), and Ali and I watched the most ridiculous episode of Xena that was based on "The Most Dangerous Game." And I cried during some really inappropriate moments out of sheer joy. And made a playlist that includes CeCe Penniston, George Michael, Skee-Lo, Cher, and all the best boy bands from the nineties. How can I ever be sad again, with a mix like that? And a certain someone I worship updated his blog today.

I really, really want to watch Stage Beauty right now, but need to call my mother and start on some poems about my eventual death. Sundays are harder than they should be, always, but this one's been wonderful, and there are still things I'm looking ahead to, tonight, and I am happier than I have any right to be. That's all, really.

I'm letting you go, but I won't let you know.

Today has been exhausting, and it's definitely not over yet. More rape nightmares, but they're getting worse, because my brother was in last night's, and I can't handle people I love being stuck in these shitty dreams, even if they don't know about it. Maggi says we need to tackle these dreams in therapy, but I'd rather focus my energy on behaviors I can really change than the same dreams I've been having since I was twelve, you know? I mean, I've been through this with four counselers before Maggi, and nothing's gotten rid of the bad dreams except, sometimes, for sleeping with someone I feel safe with. I can't count on that, though. I can't need someone in that way. So therapy, it is.

I am listening to the birthday mix I made my brother when he turned seventeen - lots of Will Smith, the theme from Jurassic Park, Ace of Base and Usher. . . Man, I miss that kid. So much that I'm going to post another little-kid picture.

Tonight, there was a Condoms and Cookies event, which Ali led us into, unknowingly. The cookies were good, I scored some ID Glide and Lucky Boy condoms (just, you know, so I can feel that butch), and I finally confronted the health services lady about how all of the dental dams they hand out are either without expiration dates or expired already. She was properly horrified. Ali shouted out the word "Rimming!" with such enthusiasm that it warmed my heart. I got a Laffy Taffy with the following joke: What do you call a chicken crossing a road? ("Poultry in motion.") And now we're talking about Restless Legs Syndrome and waiting for Marshall to call. And I still miss my brother. But I am having lunch with Van Jordan on Sunday, which is thrilling. And life is really, really good.

I believe in you, and I believe in love.

Today is not supposed to be this good. First off, it's Valentine's Day, and the last time I could actually be with the person I was with on February 14th was, um, 2003. And even that took a lot of crying and convincing on my part. So the fact that I was with my girl at midnight, this morning, was a really big thing. Of course, I had to go and have rape nightmares involving my ex, which is always a fun way to wake up, but what can I say? There was no getting down, today. I've got chocolate-covered fortune cookies (which I cannot stop eating, oh my god), these gorgeous flowers delivered by a trans person who looked remarkably like Dr. Bramlett, and a card that makes me cry every time I re-read it, which is often. And so, although the VD has gotten a bad rap as a Hallmark holiday, and it's weird for me to be one of those happy-couple-right-here people at all, let alone on holidays, I've been too giddy to even feign bitterness or annoyance today.

Besides, the story of Valentine's Day is rather beautiful and revolutionary, isn't it? A man who secretly performed marriages when they had been outlawed by the emperor, who must have known he couldn't keep it up, but who did what he could right up until they threw him in prison. I remember back in 2004, too, when Mayor Gavin Newsom started performing gay marriages in San Francisco, how it went on for almost an entire month and nearly 4,000 couples had their unions recognized by the law, finally, even if they were all voided the next month. And it felt like things were changing then, and even when the law pushed them back again, none of us forgot that they could change, at least, that we could do it again, someday.

Bottom line: I think it's essential to celebrate love every day, especially right now, when so many people in power are working to restrict it. I don't love any more, or any differently, on Valentine's day, but I can't bring myself to feign scorn or to hold back in protest of what Hallmark has done to the day. I love today, and am in love today, and that's it.

Oh, and also: I am watching Top Design with Jefferson, and I have seen this episode already, and I am loving it all over again. And Ali is in here talking out of his ass about Andy Warhol, and Marshall will be out of rehearsal soon, and things are so, so good. Even if I now have to do three readings this semester, oh shit. Maybe it's time to start writing again. After tonight.

hey, valentine, I'm just a-stumblin' 'round.

In honor of the VD, and due to recent poetry-related elation, here's one of my favorite-ever poems. Read it (aloud is always best), and you'll all be better people. Promise.

Snow and Dirty Rain
-Richard Siken:

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close
to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me
with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending
to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine
my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots
in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair,
the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where
we live. When we were little we made houses out of
cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because
our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we
struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring
your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making
those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood, but we are at the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it's getting cold. We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and a gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn is drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there? The splash
of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read
the back of the book, we know what's going to happen.
The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left
broken in the brown dirt. And then it's gone.
Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye
Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all
in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens
somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling
on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we
transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands
and record stores. Moonlight making crosses
on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
We have been very brave, we have wanted to know
the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes.
The dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in
the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms.
Our Father who art in Heaven. Our Father who art buried
in the yard. Someone is digging your grave right now.
Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said,
so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale,
the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished
halls, lightning here and gone. We make these
ridiculous idols so we can pray to what's behind them,
but what happens after we get up the ladder?
Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are
the monsters we put in the box to test our strength
against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question: What happens next?
The way you slam your body into mine reminds me
I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,
and they're only a few steps behind you, finding
the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't
stitched up quite right, the place they could almost
slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to
keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side
of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.
I crawled out the window and ran into the woods.
I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for you to love me.
If this isn't the kingdom then I don't know what is.
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart,
the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the
spaces between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere.
I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have
swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful, it really is.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want.
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cube...We were in the gold room where everyone
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.

don't give up, because you want to burn bright!

Last night: necessary catch-up with Young Steven, Grace wanting to start up a women's rap group, getting off work on time, candlelight, the Boys on the Side soundtrack, shadows and slowness and "So years from now, call me. . ." Some crying, of course, on that; more talking, more love, more reading. More sleep, hitting 'snooze' six times.

Today: wearing red, messy hair and perhaps no chance to shower, Headwaters meeting, leaving Wordsworth behind (I hope), a presentation on Maedchen in Uniform, dinner or crying (this is always the dilemma on Tuesdays), and more writing than I can imagine getting through, at this point. George Michael's "Amazing" and Josh Groban's "You Are Loved (Don't Give Up)" will serve as my soundtrack, and send me straight into the VD, as Jeff would say. We'll see how that goes down. . .

what does it mean to feel? millions of dreams come real.

Just took a life-expectancy calculator quiz for a poetry assignment and found that, if all my habits and behaviors and risks stay constant, I've got another sixty-two years in me. I suppose I should want more than that, but really? I'm twenty, and I'm already overwhelmed when I review my history, so I'm not going to gripe about another sixty-two. That said, I could start taking a multi-vitamin without shaking my life up too much. It's not like anything will ever be enough for me, anyhow - I mean, it can be 'enough' in that I'm happy, satiated, not wanting something different, but I don't see myself ever finding a good stopping point.

The weird thing is that I had to take that quiz for the sake of a poetry assignment that I am not entirely enthused about. We'll see how it works out - I'm currently stuck on a Lori story, and you all know my priorities. Except that the story has taken a backseat to Valentine's Day, which is not generally indicative of my priorities, but making a lovey-dovey mix CD for someone who doesn't love pop music isn't easy work. Honestly.

When people fuck you over, and understand that, yes, they fucked you over, they should stop trying to contact you at that point. And by 'you,' I mean 'me.' And by 'people,' I mean - well, it's not particularly hard to guess, is it? Didn't think so.

Sixty-two years! What am I going to do with all that time? I want cats and city lights and carrying kids to bed, tall shelves of books organized my way and plants on windowsills and stacks of photo albums and lamps that give off warm yellow light and maybe even a Hanson concert, if I really do it up big. These are things I hope for, might even have someday, but right now? I'm lucky just to be typing this between assignments, to have a long walk around campus during which I can call Young Steven, to have a warm room (maybe even warm arms) to return to once I'm off work for the night. Plus, I received a Valentine from my grandma today, sealed with kitten stickers, so I really am doing all right, it seems. Here's to eighty-two.

older chests reveal themselves.

Conclusions:

1) I suck at poetry.

2) I find it thrilling when the teen heartthrobs I used to worship star in gay movies.

3) I really, really miss my little brother.

I wanna shave my head, lie in bed all day long.

Lit party = great success. Made friends with the host, a man I always see but never speak to, and spent a long time communing with his calico, Trudy, which made me miss Spunky awfully. Saw a certain someone I never expected to see there, and avoided her completely. Laughed a whole lot, caught up with people I can't see enough of, revelled in unexpected hugging. Was in such high spirits that, after we came back, I ventured to the Valentine's Dance with Marshall, where she had to request a slow song for us (and it ended up being about a relationship that was ending, um). Watched the cruise video from two years back and missed Steven and DJ intensely. Started feeling almost sad then, because I'm so much better when I'm among strangers I'll never see again once the week is up.

Had a long, long lie-in with Marshall this morning, and then my roommate returned from Yale and showed us pictures and it was so cozy, just then. And then, of course, I got inexplicably sad and decided to cut my hair. I was going to trim it, then decided to shorten it a little, and then clipped it almost entirely off. Nearly shaved it, but didn't feel like messing around with a razor, and didn't think I could do it own my own. Anyway, the new hair looks awful, which was the point, but it feels really, really good in the shower. Might cut more tonight. We'll see.

Now, I'm off to write bad poetry while watching The Broken Hearts Club. I need to get better than this. Luckily, I've got William Blake on my side and George Michael stuck in my head. All isn't lost.

my love's still available, and I know you're insatiable!

So, after many failed attempts at recordkeeping, I'm back to blogging. The idea is to write daily-ish. We'll see how that works out; feel free to hold me to it.

Today's a fantastic day to start, as well, considering the mess of work I'm putting off right now. I've got some seriously sappy poetry to write, a Lori story due, a paper and presentation to work out, and more reading than I'll ever get through - but just watch me. However, because I've always marked Fridays as sacred, I spent last night looking at Brides magazine with Kenny, creating our own virtual wedding party (see below) and taking quizzes to find out our animal spirits and inner screen sirens (mine are the mongoose and Dorothy Dandridge, respectively), having screwdrivers (thanks, Chris), and then heading to Rosetta's Kitchen around midnight. Situation: five of us were hungry, but Paul drives a truck. Muir was very gentlemanly and offered me a spot inside the warm truck, but I've got to seize my chances to build up some butch cred, so Kenny and I bundled up and hurled ourselves into the truck's bed. Not only did we get a fantastic view of the stars and streetlights, we also got to bump along and roll into each other and have shouted conversations about my strap-on quandary (which has since been resolved, thanks). Rosetta's was so warm and my friends are so funny and I ate fruit salad and sweet potato fries and it was good. When we got back, Kenny took us on a field trip to find the best spot for laundry-room sex; on the way, we ran into Marshall. Mmm. Other Robert happened by the room later, and we watched some Billy Brandt, which gets hotter every single time. Late new years resolution: be more like Billy Brandt in bed.


Up very late with Marshall; only five hours of sleep before she had to head out, and the past two nights have been similar, sleep-wise, but I'd rather be exhausted. Just for the record: it was never supposed to get this way. But this girl is something else, and while I've gotten pretty good at saying no over the years, I'm not completely stupid.

Which is why I just spent the past two hours making a valentine, while watching Maedchen in Uniform. Edgar is swirling prettily in his tiny tank, and the sunlight's strong, and I am very hungry and very anxious about the lit party tonight. I finally ditched the Damien Rice, and am now back to my old diet of shameless pop music. I keep getting up to dance along, and yeah, I'm going to be paying for this tomorrow, but life is so fucking good today.