your words spring toward my dreaming, dreary brain.

A real post is out of the question, currently, because I am alternately sad as fuck or immersed in fiction so as to forget my melancholy. Suffice it to say that OurVoice is a fantastic organization, but there's just no good time to do the work I have to do with them. The nightmares are worse than ever, and the flashbacks are more frequent, and I've never been so glad for the Atlantic Ocean. As always, I'm missing more people than I've got a right to, and all these rainy days mess with my memories a bit more than they should. But you know what? This is nothing that the internet can't cure - or, failing that, distract me from.

Exhibit A: an unexpected message from a stranger in Indiana.

"im a 23 yr old male, and i want a girl that would be willing to make me look and act like the girl of your dreams, write me back if you are interested in talking"
Imagine, receiving such an overture only hours after a message from another stranger in Indiana that began, "i found your profile thru looking up fisting."

Exhibit B: a medley of clips of Severus Snape from Order of the Phoenix, provided by some kind stranger.

Pay special attention to the part where Snape grabs Harry's arm and pulls him down the stairs. It's not even right to admit the intensity of my reaction when Snape asks Harry, "Is this what you call control?"

Exhibit C: Harry Potter slash. Particularly this one story I came across while looking for something R might like. (Since then, Kara's sent me links to even more stories. I don't think I'll be leaving my room 'til Monday.)
Third Time's the Charm, by Helen
When my newest therapist asked what I do when I feel a panic attack coming on, I told her that I read.
"You read?" she asked. "But what do you read?"
"Um, things," I answered, a bit evasively.
"But how can you concentrate, with all that's going on?"
"Well, I, um. Read really good things. And then I can't even be bothered to notice what sort of physical state I'm in."
"Well," she said, "that's kind of uncommon. But I'd like to get a reading list from you sometime!"

Exhibit D: the entirety of Order of the Phoenix, which is up online now, and which I have watched three times in the past three days.

Exhibit E: really hot pictures, sent by Kate, who managed front row tickets for two Hanson concerts.

I have been wanting to attend a Hanson concert for the past decade, and I really need to suck it up and go before it's too late. Especially because Tay cannot possibly get any hotter, so it's all downhill from here. (Then again, that's what I thought ten years ago, so there's really no telling. . .) Kate mentioned that Hanson's playing a show in Charlotte in October. I wonder what my chances are of making it there?

Exhibit F: Bele Chere, which is not on the internet, but which is currently clogging up every street in Asheville, it would seem, and which Marshall and I might make our way to tonight. Or else, we might stay in and finish the second season of Weeds, which seems a little more likely, at this point.

These, friends, are just a few timely reasons that I fucking love the internet. Feel free to share more; I could use a distraction from my analysis of the economic situation in Singapore. Really.

you know, it's time that we grow old and do some shit.

A warning: I have been talking crazy today, and I probably still am. I can't even tell. See, last night, Jana came over and suggested that we play the She's the Man drinking game, which she made up on her way over. The rules? Drink every time you think Amanda Bynes is hot. Suffice it to say that we all got drunk before the big game scene even started. After Jana left, we contemplated settling down, then ended up fucking in a place I'd only dreamt of even seeing before this year. Marshall makes my dreams come true, no doubt about it. I barely slept, and had cramps all night, but had to show up for humanities, so I got wired on No-Doz and that's when I started behaving like a lunatic. My body feels spent - I couldn't even shower because I knew I'd pass out in the tub - but my mind is frantic, and I'm unbearably talkative. I just engaged Belly in a one-way conversation about the ending of Book 7. And then Kara sent me the first 495 pages of Book 7, and it's right there and I want to read it but I'm not letting myself. Not yet, anyway, because these are the last few days before the canon's set in stone, and I want to spend this time speculating and worrying and daydreaming. I want to read fanfiction and I want to theorize and I want a sense of ceremony about all of it. That said, waiting's not going to be easy, with temptation already downloaded to my desktop.

Lori comes back from Cambridge tomorrow. Tomorrow. I feel like we just moved in last weekend; there are still boxes I never got around to unpacking. Luckily, Lori's taking off again for Provincetown with her girlfriend, so we're not moving out until Saturday. Still, I have been cleaning like a madwoman all afternoon, when not consoling Belly, who is terrified of the storm outside. Jana came by today and we made lists and plans for self-improvement. She told me how she'd manifested Rick Chess in the swimming pool today, prompting me to watch the mindmovie I made for myself earlier in the summer, prompting me to dance around the house whilst vacuuming. It was a true Mrs. Doubtfire moment for me, and I'm glad there were no witnesses. Unless you count Belly, but she's not even fazed by my outbursts anymore; we're too used to each other.

My brother had a root canal today and is currently all doped-up. I love Dr. Subramanian beyond all reason, but someone needs to explain to the man that dimming the lights and playing a five-part NPR special on apartheid (however interesting and inspiring) does not exactly constitute a "multimedia extravaganza." Neither does showing us The Emperor's Club, although he definitely gets points for showing us a movie about inspiring teaching at an all-male prep school, which is a favorite genre of mine. I read Winesburg, Ohio last week and enjoyed it far more than I expected to; I only wish I could write fiction. Or poetry, come to think of it, since I still haven't made headway on my Poetics work. I turn 21 in two weeks, and I feel older than I've got a right to, but I can't tell whether I'm growing up or just growing jaded. Sometimes, I recognize my epiphanies as things my mother's always known, and it worries me. I don't know. I'm happy, but haven't quite got a claim to it, not yet.

I need to talk to someone at OurVoice finally, is what I'm starting to realize. This morning, I had a flash of the old Jason nightmares, only instead of lying still and bearing it, I kicked him, in the face, over and over again, and woke up kicking at the sheets. It felt good, much better than it should have. I've stopped talking about it to everyone, by this point, but it still dominates my thoughts and there's no winning, whether I'm angry or hurt or distant for all my memories. I'm lucky to be doing as well as I am, to feel safe and open and adored so much of the time, but I still have these moments where I panic, where I remember too much at the worst times and get to feeling like a broken person again. And if I'm not going to seek help for my own sake, I need to do it for Marshall, because she deserves someone who is brave and unafraid and whole, and I haven't been that in ages. So tomorrow, I'm going to call OurVoice, or go by if I can work up the courage, and I'm going to tell someone the whole sad story, all the details even Sal doesn 't know about, and then I'm going to set to work on a new story, one where I can move on. I mean, it has to happen, right?

It's raining outside my window, but not on the other side of the house. I'm listening to Feist and waiting on the final installment of one of my favorite Harry/Snape fics ever and talking myself up for some serious disclosure tomorrow. Until then, I want to sip iced tea and read Chuck Klosterman's new book and make big plans, because soon, I'm going to be so much better. Promise.

Snape eyed Harry, tracing his mouth with one long, thin finger as he did so.

Okay, friends: I saw Order of the Phoenix. And I loved it, probably beyond reason, but definitely not without reason, because it got so much exactly right, and wasn't afraid of taking shortcuts or totally unexpected paths to arrive at an ending that's no less heavy-hitting for all that was left on the cutting-room floor. I loved it. I don't even know how to talk about it properly because I am overwhelmed by it still, although I did just type out a monster e-mail to Kara in reaction to the film, since she loves OotP just like I do, which is to say, 'obsessively.' Seriously, friends, see it, please. I haven't laughed so much, or been so emotionally wrecked, after any of the movies like I am over this one. Sarah and I watched Goblet of Fire last night in preparation, and then attended the midnight showing, and spent the ride home incoherently listing all the things we liked about it. There were a lot of things to list, and at least six hundred details that I loved but forgot to mention. I will spare you all the ranting, but let's just say that I'm a very happy girl today, and all on-edge after seeing my favorite book in the series brought to life onscreen.


I stayed up too late last night, owing to the midnight showing and all the caffeine and adrenaline that were still coursing through my system once it was over. My girl had a death grip on me once I got into bed, so although I felt like tossing and turning, I was forced to stay in place, ear pressed against her chest, my arm falling asleep from the sleep-weight of her. It was good to wake up with Marshall at six a.m., having her slur, "How was the movie?" and listening to me go on about Snape grabbing Harry by the arm before we both drifted off again. And although we both woke up too late and slightly-grouchy, Subramaniam made up for it by showing us a film called "Why We Fight," which was, of course, about U.S. involvement in various wars and how we've managed to justify it. It was really, really good, which meant that I was able to stay awake for it. I've got homework tonight, which would be sad, but luckily, I get to write about an Arundhati Roy selection, and it's fucking awesome, and so I don't mind the work so much at all.


This weekend, Marshall's mom came to stay with us. Since she is the sweetest woman alive, we had a really great time. Belly was spoiled by all our attentions, as you can see, and we watched episodes of Weeds in bed and visited the Biltmore and browsed Pier One and it was just really good, really cozy. She does the same silly wink as Marshall does when she's said something funny, which kills me. And she brought me bitch drinks and pink slipper-socks, oh man, I love mothers so much. I wish my mother could come down, and my grandma, too; I miss having them around. My brother, too, but he seems to be doing pretty well on his own. Look at him and Kamal! Why are my brothers so ridiculous? And cute?


Also this weekend: Jana and I made charts, and played a really scary game in which we listed people, then forced ourselves to bestow a crazy fantasy scenario upon each one. It was more illuminating than most sessions of therapy, and I am not sure what to do with that. But she lives with this dog, Scruffy, which I'm sure I have mentioned before, because I go on and on about this dog. But look at him! He's got a mustache! And he shakes hands compulsively! And is big and old and lumbering! I am definitely a fan of Scruffy. He even watched Shortbus with us, although he seemed pretty unfazed by it.


My cousin Michael friended me on MySpace today, which is weird, because now he knows I'm a lesbian. Which is weird, because my family is not all that close, not when it comes to knowing each other. We're a small family, so you'd think we'd be a bit more close-knit, but honestly, we're all sort of reduced to these sad roles that were established way, way back. Jimmy's the cute cop who's gone through a million girlfriends; Michael is the steady, stable biochem nerd; Lauren is ditzy and boy-crazy and loud; my brother is the awkward jokester; Chad is the quiet one with Crohn's disease (which is a shitty role, but we really don't know each other that well, is my point). I'm the one who's always off in the corner with a book, which I'm okay with. Really, my grandmother's the only one who connects us, and probably the only one who understands us, as well. I love my family, and our predictable holiday get-togethers, but I can't pretend to have a clue to any of them, except for Lauren. So it's weird to see on Michael's profile that he's an atheist, or that he lists his parents as his heroes - these things that MySpace considers basic, but which I never knew about this boy I've known my whole life. Michael used to be my hero, actually; after my great-grandma died, Mike used to stay weekends at my grandma's house, and even though he was too old and cool to be doing it, he'd spend hours entertaining me and Greg, making up fake commericals in the basement and sneaking into our room at night to cast shadow puppets on the ceiling. I wish feeling so close to my family, you know? And totally wonder how long it'll be before the whole family realizes I'm gay and stops asking me when I'm going to find myself a fella.


Because I am photo-happy these days, I'll conclude with a shot of my triceratops, Beau Brummell, with Marshall's teddy bear, Bunky, who has got a bad eye but a big heart. I'm very silly, this summer, but also very stressed-out, trying to balance everything, trying to keep my mind off of endings and remind myself that I've got time enough, and love enough, to make it all happen, somehow. The first thing I've got to make happen, of course, is my homework, so I'm off to do that. Next up: Harry Potter fanfiction? At least I'm being honest, anyway.

P.S. I have been thinking about Ali lately, like, all the time! And now I am on the phone with him! And it is SO GOOD. How lucky, that Ali was the first friend I made at UNCA, and that my love for him just grows and grows.

P.P.S. And he just told me that he took some online quiz and found out that he is a Hufflepuff. Oh, Ali! The quiz is here, incidentally. I am a Ravenclaw, looks like, which is good and all, but I mean, nothing's cuter than Ali being a Hufflepuff.

Yeah, it's safe to say that Boudreaux and I belong together. He lets me hold him like a baby and stares meaningfully into my eyes while I serenade him with improvised songs about his virtues. He follows me into the kitchen, the office, out the door, and at least acts as if he understands the long, agonized monologues I subject him to. And he's so needy and jumpy and neurotic, and he gets hurt feelings if he thinks you're laughing at him, oh man. It's love, friends. Although! I did meet a dog yesterday who looks just like Snuffaluffagus, and he was pretty awesome. He's really into shaking hands, over and over, and has a moustache, and let me love all over him for longer than Sal ever will. All of this exposure to dogs is fun, and I'm starting to appreciate them a lot more, but it's also confirming that I am, most definitely, a cat person, through and through.



Things are slow, here, and mostly-sweet. My class seems really good; we jumped right in with a discussion on canon, and we get to read Arundhati Roy and James Baldwin and Audre Lorde, and Subramaniam is all kinds of adorable and witty and good. I'm reading a biography of Tennessee Williams which is thrilling, because the author hung out with him a whole lot, for a long time, and so there's lots of juicy information that makes Tennessee feel like a friend, somehow. I love biographies; I don't even care if they're about anyone I know, as long as they're well-done. And this one is! Two nights ago, we had beers with Brenna and then had a dance party for two in Lori's office, which didn't last for too long because we got distracted a few songs in. Still, I've never really let myself dance with anyone I've been with; I've avoided it pretty neatly and felt okay about that. But it's Marshall, and I love the way she moves, and the faces she makes when we're dancing, and getting dizzy and sweaty and worked-up. So that was really, really good, if a bit short-lived. Today, I am catching up with Camille, my oldest friend, because we're usually together at this time of year, and it feels wrong hearing fireworks without her around. And later on, I get to go to Shakespeare in the Park with Jana to see Romeo and Juliet, which remains my favorite Shakespeare play ever, as stupid as it sounds. Marshall's mom is coming in for the weekend, and it's impossible to sustain sadness when that woman's around.

Also: I am becoming a Harry Potter fiend. I took careful notes when I reread the series again, and I've been through so much speculation and anxiety over it, and it's silly, but really important, in a way. I mean, the fact is, this world is pretty short on literary events. Movies have midnight showings all the time, but how often do books get the masses all riled-up, huh? Not often enough, I say! So this is an important moment we're in, right now, having waited a decade for answers and being on the brink of receiving them once we get our hands on Book 7. And then, what, it's over? I am going to be a mess. Luckily, I can drown my sorrows in repeat viewings of Order of the Phoenix. Sarah and I are having a marathon of the movies leading up to the midnight showing, and I am making a ridiculous CD of wizard rock to listen to on the way, and it is great. I wish my girlfriend would watch with us, since I think she'd really enjoy the movies, but I think I'm through asking. She is coming with me to see Once at the Fine Arts, though, which I have been waiting to see for months. Look how adorable this movie looks! And the music!



I need to go and get ready for the day, get through some errands and get to know Tennessee Williams a little bit better. But Shakespeare tonight! It doesn't get any luckier, folks.

but stay, if you want to know the way.

Yet another day of domestic bliss in Lori's Loveshack, friends. It's early afternoon, and I've just taken Belly for a miniwalk, made a few calls to potential grad schools, straightened out a weird summer housing situation, and listened to Hanson's new album, which I actually really like, although it's certainly no Middle of Nowhere. Hanson music's sort of worthless until you've got the words down, though, because you can't appreciate them fully until you can sing along loudly in your car, or a capella in the shower.

Now, sure, I sound like the same old Jen, rambling about Hanson and making lists all the damn time, but this summer's got me in some crazy new place. I wake early in the morning and watch Marshall get ready for work, send her off with a kiss, spend the days reading and running errands and rolling around with the dogs, relax with the girl once she returns from work, have dinner and, very often, quiet nights in together. (Or else we have arguments over whether we'd rather be stupid or snobbish, but I'm even grateful for all that, because I get to see her speak with such conviction, and she shares all kinds of stories, and she always shocks me with how good she is.) My life this summer is the exact opposite, basically, of what I thought I wanted before Marshall wrecked all my alone-for-now plans and moved into my life. It's really nice, though, living in this adorable house and cozying up with our dogs and watching four episodes of Weeds in a row when we don't feel like working. Like playing house, but with an agenda. It's total insanity, this domesticity. Last night, Marshall and I made fucking brownies - two varieties of 'em.

Here's our little lady, Belly, looking a bit unhappy about the camera situation. She's so pretty, though, and so silly, and so soft, and she looks a whole lot like a baby calf from certain angles because of her black spots, which you can't see in this picture.

I'll just admit it now, though: Belly and Marshall have got some crazy bond going on, while I clicked with Boudreaux from the moment he jumped up on me, scratching my arms all up in the process. He's very needy and silly, but he manages to look so noble in the process. A fascinating pup, that Boudreaux.

Tomorrow's the 4th of July, which ain't no thing, except that I've never gotten to be with a girlfriend on the 4th before. (I'm usually at Myrtle Beach with the family then, and having madcap adventures with Camille when the fireworks go off.) The day after that, I start Humanities 414 with Subramaniam, which I'm totally primed for, because I love humanities classes and have heard really excellent things about this teacher. I suppose I'll have to resume work on Poetics of Perception at some point, although my poetry gets weaker with each attempt, and god, I miss prose, and will be glad to get into my seminar project next term. I also get to see Dr. Judy, my psychiatrist, on Thursday, and although I am a therapy junkie from way back, this woman does nothing for me. She routinely refers to Marshall as "Megan" and refers to past lovers as "special friends," and she always seems to be judging me. Also, her office is ugly and the crayons she keeps on her shelf are all disorganized and it distresses me each time I'm in there. But I will prevail, and then I'll return to this house and cuddle with Belly and Boudreaux, and oh man, I'll have new books, that's way-exciting. It's all looking up, friends. And, hey, check out the cute pulp novel cover display that hangs in Lori's kitchen!

It's a good life, and I don't forget it.