let's go outside in the moonshine; take me to the places that I love best!

Just got in from seeing Ellen for the first time in months. This, in itself, is worth noting, as I love El to bits and will never see enough of her, but tonight was also the last time I'll ever be in that house of hers, probably, as her family's up and moving to Rochester. This is totally sad and strange for me. She moved into this neighborhood eight years ago; we used to play Ghosts in the Graveyard with all the neighbor kids, then give up on hiding and hang out in my room when we got bored with the game. We rode the schoolbus together and ran through her neighbor's sprinklers at three a.m. and, yes, we despised Erie the entire time, but we both lived here. We grew up here, and I grew up right because of her, in a major way, and she's one of the few good things Erie's got for me, anymore, and she's leaving tomorrow. It made me feel so old, sitting on her bed and watching her pack up her entire room, knowing I wouldn't be back there again. I'm really sad about this, but also feeling really warm and good after seeing her. It may be the least-lonely night I'll spend in Erie for a long time, so that's how I want to remember it.

Things are kind of strange and stressful here, in ways I wouldn't even know how to talk about if I could. One way I have been dealing with this is by watching The History Boys over and over. Have you guys seen this movie? It's about British boys at school, a coming-of-age thing, but also very much about the value of education, and the forms it can take, and it's just superbly funny while also making me cry a lot, almost every single time. Also, these boys are totally adorable, and because it's a coming-of-age story set in a boys' school, there is lots of overtly gay longing. Observe:

Otherwise, I just hang out with my grandmother (who is out of the hospital, but not quite out of the woods yet), miss people, and read a whole lot. I just finished David B. Feinberg's Spontaneous Combustion, which I'd gotten for fifty cents at a booksale three years back and never read. Clearly, that was a mistake on my part, because the book was terribly funny and heavy and memorable. Now, I'm on to Edna St. Vincent Millay, who reminds me of Jeff Rackham, my first writing professor at UNCA. He's dying now - his office has been cleared out, and he had to leave his teaching position - and this is heartbreaking, as he's one of the funniest, most encouraging professors around, and his extravagant praises were what pushed me toward creative writing classes. Without him, I might be a miserable psych major today. Anyway, the Millay is fantastic, although it makes me feel simultaneously overcome and disconnected. I should be writing more than reading, but Erie's not the greatest place for productivity.

I'm working on it, though. Soon, I'll have a renewed driver's license, three cute new t-shirts, and registered Democrat status (for the sake of primaries, okay?). I may get to spend one more sunny day with Steven, and I'll definitely be moving into Lori's house to dogsit, which is still unreal to me. So I mean, it's only a matter of time before things pick up again. I'll be relieved for the change of scenery, the new school term, and the proximity of Marshall, whom I miss more than I'd admit even to her. In the meantime, I've always got George Michael to see me through. Goodnight, everyone!

and the strangest things seemsuddenly routine.

Life is vaguely insane right now, and I haven't been around so much to document it, for the following reasons:

One: my darling grandmother, who happens to be one of the best people in the universe, is in the hospital. It came out of nowhere - a nasty bowel obstruction, we think, that took her out in a hurry. We took her into the ER on Tuesday, and have been driving in to visit her at every chance since then. That night was horrific: I stayed by her and, at the worst point, watched them attempt - no less than eight times - to jam an NG tube through her nose and down her throat to her stomach. My grandma's a trooper, though - she's still making friends with all the nurses and residents on her floor and refusing to complain about all the pain she's in. She may need surgery, but things are stabilizing, thank Christ. My grandma is the glue in our family, the one who chats to everyone and keeps us all updated, the one who hosts all our get-togethers and regales the ladies at the beauty parlor with stories about her grandkids. She's seventy-five, and probably not immortal, I know, but I can't even imagine our family - or our lives - without her. So if you pray, or send out good thoughts into the universe, or do anything of the sort, keep Grandma Bev in mind, yeah?

Two: I've got a new job at the sports park, which is terribly unglamorous but lets me get in a lot of hours before I dash off to dogsit. There's no dress code, and it's mostly just me, in the front office, answering phones and socializing with soccer people. The real perk - and no one warned me about this, believe you me - is that I have close-up access to hot, sweaty soccer boys all day long, and they lend themselves quite willingly to my gay fantasies. Two in particular - Trendy B and his hot young intern - are of interest. Expect updates, and perhaps even some pictures taken on the sly. It all depends on how desperate I get there, friends.

Three: this is more a whole mess of other things that keep me busy. My mother and I are on really fantastic terms and have been watching lots of movies, shuttling back and forth to the hospital, and trying to train my cat to play nice. Sal seems to be getting back in touch with his feral street-cat roots, but I love him more each time he draws blood, so I guess that makes me a masochist. Young Steven and I are likely to reunite and ride rollercoasters together next month, and this news feels both wildly improbable and totally inevitable. Ellen called me today, and I get to see her soon, and that's pretty thrilling. My baby brother's fighting on Saturday and he's designated me his official action photographer, and while I'm leery about watching anyone try to kick my brother's ass, I'm kind of pumped-up for it. Tuesday was the three-year anniversary of the Festival of Peace, which makes me all kinds of nostalgic. It's hard to even remember being that young and ready, when my secrets made me feel lighter, when everything was happening and I had a million choices to make but never worried about choosing wrongly. I mean, that did happen, right? I really was like that; it's not all nostalgia. How lucky, to have felt that way even once, though. And how strange, to look back on it from here.

'Here' is still Erie, which is a problem, but the larger, more intangible 'here,' this stage of my life? Is nearly exactly what I want from it. I like playing with my cat in the morningtime, rolling around on the living room carpet and taking turns in the best patch of sunlight. I like lying in bed with Mom at night, making her laugh before she goes to sleep, then leaving her cool sheets for my trusty green sleeping bag. I like late-night phonecalls with Marshall, all the talk of a lightning-fast yellow subway that should exist for us, her sleepy voice and the way she calls me 'applejack' and all the sounds that have to suffice for her physical absence. I like our morning calls, too, the feeling of waking with her from several states away. Plus, hi, soon I am going to be house-sitting for the professor I used to be too intimidated to even e-mail about assignments! And I'll be back in Asheville, taking long walks with Belly and Boudreux, rereading Harry Potter and writing poetry and reconnecting with people I miss way too much, tonight. So you know, I'm all right. Worried for my grandmother and fighting a killer migraine, but nothing the Hedwig soundtrack can't see me through, tonight. Tomorrow: a chaotic shift I'm woefully unprepared for, an awkward car ride with my father, and a soy chai, if I'm lucky.

think it's time that we grew old and did some shit.

Man oh man. Look, Erie, I know we're not on the best of terms, but this is getting ridiculous. Last night was rough, right, so this morning, I made every effort to shove today in the other direction. I did progressive-muscle relaxation exercises, took a long hot shower with tea-tree shampoo, had lunch with the family, and danced in my room 'til I was a sweaty mess. I took a multivitamin. I mean, really, everything I could think of. And I was still shaky and sad, but trying. And then my mom said we should rent a movie, and I thought, "Yeah, okay, here we go."

So we rented The Science of Sleep, which I'd been wanting to see all semester, and my father even stuck around to watch with us. Too bad that it reminded me of Jason, to a painful degree, all the way through. Gael Garcia Bernal's character, cute as he may be, came off as manipulative and wildly impractical and absolutely infuriating, much like Jason himself. But I mean, all of it, from the music to the lighting to the script, reeked of Jason: it's the kind of movie he'd love to make, I can tell. And after it was over, I just fell apart completely, and my parents heard me crying, and it just got really, really awkward. My father, bless his heart, brought Sal up to my room and tried to convince him to stay with me, and my mom rubbed my back and asked me to sleep with her tonight. It took ages to convince them that I was okay, and that I was going to stay up and distract myself for a while and they should go on to bed, and then Sal left and I really broke down. Checked Jason's MySpace, of course, because I still do that several times a day, and saw that, indeed, he'd listed The Science of Sleep to his favorite movies. Fucking fucker. It's been almost eight months and I worry that I'm getting worse. I need to toughen up, to be braver, to get over it.

Luckily, I did get to talk to Joe tonight, and Marshall's calling me back soon, and although Asheville is too faraway for me right now, I'll go back next month and turn Lori's house into a proper loveshack, which is a dream I've been waiting years to realize. And Tommy Hays wrote to me this morning and was predictably precious, and I made my mother watch that stupid video of him on Bookwatch, and that cheered me up some. And I'm going to get ready for bed now, and practice relaxation exercises from the book Jill lent me, and Marshall will talk me right to sleep, if I'm lucky, and I'm going to set my alarm periodically so I can't sleep solidly for long enough to dream, so maybe I can get by without nightmares. I've got a plan, is what I mean, and there are bound to be good things on their way, things I'm not even looking for. Tomorrow: the library, some writing, and a more successful movie night with Mom. Tonight: sleep, as soon as I can get it. Goodnight, lovelies.

are you on fire from the years?

You know, most of my music is pretty retro: on a giddy, first-kiss kind of day, I can be found singing along to 'NSYNC, and my heartbreak is often echoed in Hanson songs. I rarely get rid of my old CDs (although I do keep several hidden), and there are countless albums I'll never overplay or outgrow. And at the top of this list sits the Indigo Girls' Retrospective, which is sort of cheap, as it's a best-of thing, but it's the one that's gotten me through every single season, every long, crying night and each breathless morning-after, the one I keep having to re-burn because it's scratched from being played so often.

Tonight, I keep switching back to the track "Kid Fears," which maybe some of you know. (If not, do yourselves a favor, because it's gorgeous and features Michael Stipe, himself.) And because I've been sort of melancholy and reflective, I fixated on the line "What would you give for your kid fears?" and attempted to apply it to my own life, which is a dangerous game to play with dramatic music, kids. But really? When I was a kid, I think I feared almost exactly the same things that wake me in the night now. I've had rape nightmares for a decade now, and when I was really young and had to use the bathroom after bedtime, I'd always switch on all the lights along my way, check all the cupboards and behind the shower curtain, and lock the door before I could pee, and even then, I'd hold my breath and try hard not to blink, in case someone came in. I still do the same thing, without ever knowing where it came from. What else? I was always afraid of being unnoticed, of not being outstanding in any way, of being ugly, of never knowing enough. Looking stupid was a huge concern, back then, and even now, after my best classes, I still feel like I'm passing, somehow, like I've tricked everyone into believing I'm intelligent. I never stopped fearing bugs with lots of legs, okay, but nor have I outgrown my fear of being left behind - though that fear is just as unfounded now as it was when I was six. So, really, I don't know - my kid fears aren't all that far away. It could be that I only remember the fears that stayed with me, that all of my irrational phobias faded from memory by this point, but more likely, I think, is the fact that kids are getting smarter about what's scary, that they're oftentimes dead-on. Next time I hang out with Izzy, I mean to find out what she's afraid of.

Today was sort of off, owing to my NuvaRing removal, pangs of loneliness and feeling cut-off (read: being back in Erie), and a triggering scene in Little Children, which I liked even better than the book in a lot of ways. There were three panic attacks, one instance of being sick in my grandmother's bathroom, and a weird bout of hallucinations. Maybe the meds aren't entirely adjusted, yet. I'm very sad to be missing Joe's birthday, and to be this faraway from friends. There's just no one here for me anymore, and I'm too panicky to go out on my own - especially when I always get shit from strangers or ex-classmates who call me a dyke when they see me out. Erie's just not my city, and that's not news to anyone. Plus, my nightmares are definitely back. I talked to my mother for a long time after we took my grandma home, though, and things with her are better than they've ever been, so that's a big thing I won't overlook.

Speaking of good, big things I can't overlook: today marks my seventh month spent officially with Miss Marshall, which is far past what I expected that first time she stayed the night. ALSO! We will be spending part of our summer dogsitting for Dr. Non-fiction, and also looking after her maybe-girlfriend's sweet dog sometimes. And, um, whacking weeds? Anyway, it'll keep me out of this city, and we'll get to play house on a grand scale, and I never thought this would happen. Also, I e-mailed Tommy Hays just now, and just thinking of the response I'll get has me grinning. Also, Jason hates the word 'grin,' and now that I am not speaking to him and owe him exactly nothing, I use it with extra emphasis, and take a certain measure of glee in that. Well, I didn't say this was going to be a mature list, did I?

I like how the Indigo Girls say, "Thanks, y'all!" after every song they play live. And how my kitten is so eager to lick my hands when I come home, how he waits for me in the window sometimes and watched the car pull into the driveway. I like checking my favorite blogs for updates, and knowing that the Tea Series will be finished in just about a month (hopefully!), and reading reviews of movies that will never come to Erie. (I really, really want to see Once, oh man.) I like having my beloved childhood toy, Blue, a floppy dog with an embroidered teardrop and a missing ear, right where I can keep an eye on him. I like fizzy blueberry lemonade, with or without vodka, and I like the thought of seeing Young Steven again next month, and I like the humongous Velvet Goldmine poster hanging over my bed. I like the progressive muscle relaxation exercises I do twice a day, now, and all the inside jokes existing within my family, and the fact that my grandma is still around to joke with. So don't think for a second that I've given up on anything, here, because this list is just the beginning. Yes, I'm sad and could use some company, but that's what this stack of books is for. I'll write tomorrow, or soon, when I'm in better spirits, but for now, goodnight to all of you, who belong high up on the list of things I like.

I bet if we kissed, the swings would freeze in motion.

Oh man, update! Yes, I know, it's been ages, but I haven't forgotten about this thing. It's just been, you know, rather hectic. There have been a lot of times I wanted to write here and couldn't (considering I only visited my room every few days, toward the end of the semester), several times when I had a lot to say and thought better of it, and times when I honestly intended to update but felt overwhelmed by how much there was to say. I guess this is one of those times, but here goes.

School's out, which would be thrilling, except that I really like school. Also, I took an incomplete in my least-favorite class so that I could pull A's in my other classes - it wasn't a terribly hard sacrifice to make, although it came up at a really rough time - so now I've got weeks' worth of poetry to compose and critique. It's all part of my grand plan, though, because I seem to be making every effort to avoid leaving school for even the smallest increment of time. Anyhow, the semester ended well, if all-too-busily: lots of nights at LaRue's with the fabulous Erin and Joe, some much-needed quality time with young Christopher, and learning my way around Asheville with Marshall (about time, right?). Also, my girl and I are totally getting in with our professor - she came along on our frog-shopping adventure, and played guitar for us in her kitchen, and filled us in on her friend drama (we had plenty to tell her in return, believe you me). We might even get to housesit and look after her precious dog, Belly, starting next month - these toes are staying crossed 'til she lets us know for sure. And so, suddenly, my summer is looking up. Regardless of dogsitting engagements, I'll be in Asheville for my 21st birthday - and for the new Hanson album, Order of the Phoenix, and Book Seven!

In other good news: Jaslene won America's Next Top Model. Yes, I watch that show every week. I manage to balance it, though, by boycotting women's magazines. Lord knows how I keep myself from buying up the new issue of Jane every month, but the new editor sucks and my self-esteem doesn't need another reason to drop, so I content myself with a weekly televised modeling competition. But Jaslene, the draq-queen looking tough girl, totally brought it down, and I am allowing myself to be properly excited. Plus, look how hot she is in drag. So yeah, I'm way more excited about this show than I've got any right to be.

More good things: I got to see my #1 therapist again for the first time in years, and it was like no time has passed at all - she even quotes the same Indigo Girls song to me as always. I got to catch up with Kara last night, which only happens, like, three times a year. I've pulled together all kinds of old family photographs for possible use in my senior seminar next semester, and am getting unusually ambitious. My kitten is the cutest thing ever, and wakes up warmly and licks my fingers and keeps me busy with flashlight-tag. Things here are so calm that I've been able to ease up on the Ativan, and my therapist lent me a book with all kinds of exercises to work through, which I promise is more fun than it sounds. I've been listening to a lot of bouncy indie music that has me dancing like a fiend in my room at all hours, in spite of the fact that I'm still all sick and sneezy. Hanson put samples from their new album online, and it sounds really good - those silly brother are still singing my life story, after all these years.

All this, of course, is just building up to the most exciting update: last weekend, I met Rue McClanahan! You might know her as Blanche Devereaux from the Golden Girls, but you probably didn't know that she she's written an autobiography, or that she's probably buying property in Asheville! I got to see her with Marshall, her mother, my mother, and my grandmother on Mother's Day weekend! We had a total girls' night out, with a lengthy late-night dinner and hanging out in hotel rooms, and my grandmother is still talking about it. Unfortunately, my seventy-three year old grandma was shocked at the sexual nature of Rue's book, and didn't know what to do with herself when she finished. Luckily, I had Tommy Hays' The Pleasure Was Mine on hand - it's refreshingly folksy and unexplicit. She is loving it, as she should, and I am loving Tommy Hays endlessly, as I always will.

See? Even when I'm back in Erie, all I really want to talk about is school. My apologies, everyone - I'll cut this off here and spare you all. Count on me being back at blogging from here on out, though - now that my non-fiction workshop is out, blogging has become a necessity. Hope you're all living fabulously!