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!

and I hope you believe me when I say I'm trying

Deleted my last post, figuring that anyone who needed to know what was going on knows already. Have continued to hide out, though, as I get crazier and crazier.

The positive: this craziness has expanded to let in a little mania. I can cry again. I got to spend a long weekend in Marion, Virginia with my girl, and the change of scenery (and being around her family, and her best friend, and her, of course) did me good. I finally finished Audre Lorde's Zami: A New Spelling of My Name while watching Marshall and Stephen play on the beach, and I cried a lot, and thought a lot, and loved it. I was not hospitalized, and may not even have to be now that I've made it this long. My family might come down next weekend. I have been having a lot of cat dreams, sometimes starring Sal, and I wake up feeling warm and ready to face the day, sometimes. I have James Taylor stuck in my head. My professors are really good people, and Lori is especially understanding, even though she probably expects more from me than any other teacher has, and I'm very lucky for that. I got to see Mary Oliver on Friday night, and she was so funny and good to see, and we met all of these awesome artsy people from New Orleans who offered us a place to stay if we come and visit; one guy kept reciting Rumi translations to us before Mary started up. I get to stay with Marshall tonight. Headwaters has finally been sent off to Biltmore Press, after we pulled it together for the third time in, like, two weeks. I have an idea for my senior seminar project. I was on time to work tonight, and have helped a lot of people with dumb things without ever rolling my eyes. I have high, high hopes of talking to Young Steven tonight. I get to write a paper having something to do with Sherman Alexie (I haven't decided what, yet).

The negative: my craziness has expanded. I can cry again. For the first time, I wasn't all that thrilled to enter Asheville city limits again. I am totally hiding out from all the things that scare me, or make me feel unsafe or uncomfortable, and this has really pared my life down. I just can't be around anyone who doesn't absolutely believe I can get through this shit (without being put away for a while), or who resents my problems or my bad timing, because I'm really, really close to giving up and leaving school right now, and they still might put me away, and I can't let myself get into that mindset any more than I do already, on my own. I need to make it through the next month, my next story, my Comfort reading, all of that - without fucking up or falling behind any more than I have already - and I can't leave room for any doubt in there. Anna's dad died. Danny is probably being sent away, and there's absolutely nothing I can do for him. I really, really miss my family and my cats. I have skipped Poetics of Perception way too many times and am still behind on the work, and have pretty much stopped caring. I have to take the Poetics professor for senior seminar next semester, though. I still need to get on something, soon, because I'm really starting to lose my grasp on things, and soon everyone will notice. And honestly, what the fuck am I writing my Sherman Alexie paper about? I was supposed to have that decided last week. This is not like me.

I guess the second list is still longer, but the first list has grown since Tuesday, and I'm starting to get very serious, even severe, about doing what I need. I feel guilty and sad, but I was already overwhelmed with those feelings. Coming this close to the edge has been good for that, at least: Maggi says that this is going to teach me to ask for, and insist on, what I need, and lord knows I'm trying, here. I'm scared, and sad, and sorry for everything I can't do or be right now. I'm trying with everything I've got to do all that I can, and if that isn't enough, then I'm sure that some nurse, or counselor, or friend, or psychiatrist will be happy to tell me again what I'm already terrified of hearing: it's not enough. Until then, though, I'm taking care of it. I'm off to revise a poem and write a paper proposal and critique some stories and close some labs, and I don't have to be alone, or with idle time, tonight, and that's the best I can do, for now.

and why do you sing hallelujah if it means nothing to you?

I am currently skipping Queer Fictions, which I feel badly about but not all that badly, apparently, because here I am. Just took an Airborne, and am about to attempt sleep while I've got the room to myself. I only manage an hour of alone time a week, probably, and in order to get more tonight, I'm skipping dinner. I need to write something for my Saturday reading, and pull something together for my Tuesday reading, too. I need to get through a lot of reading and response papers and sonnets and, oh fuck, my appreciation paper on Percy Bysshe Shelley is already overdue. I am not keeping up very well.

Last night, I was having a nightmare, and it scared my sleepy girlfriend awake. I woke up to her crying, the really scary kind of crying that makes you sick if you can't stop yourself soon enough, and clinging to me, and feeling angry and helpless. You'd think I'd give her a rest when I was passed the fuck out, right? Soon, I'll have to start sleeping alone, but not-alone in the room, which is really depressing. I'm trying not to think about it. The dreams are always worse when she's not around.

So I had the worst counseling appointment of my life, today, which is saying something, since I've been in therapy for the past five years, and am currently on counselor number five. I like this one, too - usually, we really click, and I feel safe in that room. But today, she had me doing all of these stupid exercises where I had to get in touch with different parts of me, locating them within my body, and even though I told her, look, my body is a whole other set of issues I can't even talk about, so I'd really rather not be in it like this right now, she prevailed. I went through her whole Kleenex supply, and kept telling her I wanted to stop what we were doing, but I was so worn down then, and so it just went on. I could barely fucking breathe, and she was asking me to give breath to my nightmares. Fuck that. Then I was supposed to summon an ancestor or spiritual guide who could pull me out of the Nightmare Room (which doesn't fucking exist anyway), and I couldn't come all the way out of it. Had a panic attack, and stopped in the spot Chelsea took me that one afternoon 'til it passed, which helped a little. Throwing up when I returned to my room did not help. I was so fucking vulnerable in there, and I didn't trust my therapist at all by the time she'd pushed me into things I made it clear I wasn't ready for. I don't want to go back, but because I'm such a headcase, I'm scheduled to go back on Monday. I can't keep feeling like a crazy person, I can't get this out-of-control again, especially not with her. I just need to sit and fucking talk, not scan my body for problems and try to separate parts of myself that can't be extricated, anyway.

I can't be around people now. If I'm going to be lonely, I might as well be alone, you know? At least that way, there's some logic in it. So: sleep now, then working through dinner, then seeing Marshall. Then more work? I need to write the fucking Friends of Dorothy piece. Especially because I keep remembering back to those times, to those people who made me feel so warm and safe and sane when I was in crisis. I keep telling the stories instead of writing them down. I want to do so much more than I can, right now, and no, that's not just some part of me talking, it's all of me. Everything in me is tired and afraid, and now I can't even take that to therapy. The bright spot of my day so far was a lecture on John Keats, during which I almost forgot myself. I guess that's evidence that I'm still right where I need to be, after all this.

it's enough to move a mountain, make a blind man see!

Am trying to close these fucking labs, with little success. Luckily, Campus Police has got my back, and surprised me by closing Karpen for me! Which means I didn't get to sign up for advising. Still, bright side, since that's what today's been all about.

It started out rough, which is pretty usual, by this point. In spite of some bad dreams, I made it to Poetics of Perception for the first time in ages, and we workshopped villanelles, and it was not the most thrilling time ever, but we went over Joanna's, which was really incredible, and I talked to her for a while after class and it was really affirming. Went back to wake Marshall, and cried a whole lot, for reasons I can't actually remember very well now. Lunch with my favorite people helped, and so did watching Pecker with Jeff and talking about Bengal cats and Fern Gully music and furries while watching Asheville's public bulletin channel. I think that Jeff and I are in line on a lot of things right now, feeling all hectic and out-of-place, and it was so good to see him again and to spend all that time laughing. Dinner was a chance to continue the hysterics, revisiting our television sitcom story and talking about mean kids we knew way-back-when. We loitered outside, and then Marshall called and asked me to meet her in the parking lot before work.

She brought me this sweet potted orchid, 'cause it's our five months, and we took it up to my room and lay in bed, listening to boyband music, 'til I was pretty late for work. I'm going over there in ten minutes, if these fuckers ever leave the labs, and that's going to be good. She's good, better than I expected, somehow, and so is what we've got. I figured it'd just be something fun, and I'd fall in love but stop short of ever saying so where she could hear me, and we'd be like friends who spent nights together and, I don't know, giggle a lot? When instead, our subconsciouses are starting to scare us a little, and I'm all shaken-up and hopeful and sometimes pass entire hours without ever wondering how I'm going to fuck this up. Way to be a serial monogamist, Jen. The plan was to stay single, to have fun, to not fall again 'til I'd uncluttered myself a bit. But this is fun, and it's nice to say yes, sometimes, and to be able to ask for what I want, hard as that still seems, and to wake up to something even better than my best dreams have been. So, five months. Who saw that coming?

I have "People Got To Be Free" stuck in my head. The version from the Xena musical. Sometimes, I really do love my subconscious for giving me just what I need, when even I'm not sure what that is. I do know now, though, that my needs involve closing RH142 and 006, reading some essays while Marshall finishes her work, and curling up with her the second I can. Should be a soft, warm ending to an exhausting day. Will report tomorrow. Goodnight, lovers!

without you, I'm always twenty minutes late.

So, true to form, my weekend was ridiculous and exhausting and surprising and difficult and good. Like, um, pretty much every day has been, lately? Here's an update, edited down painfully but necessarily:

1) On Friday night, Marshall and I went out to late-night dinner with two of my three favorite professors ever. We'd pretty much planned to go out with Hobby, but Horvitz, too? In the same night? We never dreamed of it, basically. Hobby even drove us home and invited us to dinner at his house sometime.

2) ALSO, that same night, we identified the namesake of Karpen Hall, only my favorite building on campus. To celebrate, we decided to consecrate my favorite classroom in the building. A strap-on may have been involved. The chair one of my other favorite professors sits in might have been, too. I'm starting to get way too jazzy, as Jeff would say. It was a lifetime dream, though! I can only say no to so many things. . .

3) Finally watched Hedwig & the Angry Inch with Marshall: serious news. She even sang along with the follow-the-bouncing-wig part, and apparently really liked it, and has been humming "Wig in a Box," which makes me really relieved. Anyone who doesn't love that movie probably can't love me entirely. That might be really stupid to say, and even wrong (doubt it), but I have no interest in testing that theory, so let's just take it as a fact.

4) Had this crazy dream involving dogs, my mother and brother, Marshall, Kara, and ice cream. I remember it really vividly, even if I don't entirely get it. In this dream, Marshall and I were living together and looking to get a dog, but disagreeing on which one we wanted to take home. Marshall was in love with a Cairn terrier that looked a lot like this:

But I was madly in love with, of all things, this big black poodle. I'd include a picture, but there are no really good pictures of adult black poodles that don't look froofy and silly. Rest assured that this dog was not like the poodles you have known before. He was really chill, and had this really smart, perceptive look about him. You could imagine telling him your darkest secrets and him actually understanding you, and loving you anyway. I had my heart set on this thing, but Marshall was way into this wired little terrier, chasing him around on all fours, and we were in a stalemate of sorts. I went into the next room to mull it over - I wasn't sure if I could give in when that poodle was so fucking meant for me. The room was a kitchen, but like, a really big, industrial kind of kitchen, like a restaurant would have. Kara was there, and I explained the dog dilemma to her and she asked if I wanted some ice cream. I did, really badly, so we went to the soft-serve machine, which churned out this Neapolitan soft-serve - like, vanilla came out for a few seconds, then it switched to strawberry, to the chocolate, then back. . . I don't even like Neapolitan ice cream in real life, but this machine was really cool, and Kara made this perfect ice cream cone where the layers all lined up exactly by flavor, and I was really impressed, and she made herself one, and we ate them, and then I heard the silly little terrier barking in the next room and was like, "Shit, I should go and take care of this," and then I woke up and cried. That's why I wrote this out, I guess, because it clearly struck something crazy in me. I understand where all the elements in it came from, because of things from my day, but not why the fuck it got me that way. You know me: obsessive record-keeping is always in order.

5) I am listening to Savage Garden right now, and "The Lover After Me" just came on, and it's pretty much my favorite song I always forget about. So beautiful. And I still think I'm the bitch Darren Hayes sings about in "Tears of Pearls." Yikes.

6) Still haven't written a story for Queer Conference, even though I've got a reading coming up on Saturday. Lori says I should just read several of the micro pieces and that I don't need to be uplifting about it, but I mean, I really want to write this story. We'll see how that plays out.

7) Tonight, I gave Edgar clean water in his tank, and he's stopped playing dead for the night. I think we're past that phase. Fingers crossed, just in case.

8) Had a really good, long, serious talk with Ali tonight. I love that boy. Even though we argue a lot and are very much opposites in so many ways, we find ourselves on common ground so easily, and everything is so solid and honest. He'll tell me, "Jenny, that's a really bad sign!" or "You are making a big mistake, there!" when I need to hear it, but he gives really good validation, too, and I'll always trust it. He was the first new friend I met here, aside from my roommate, and I can't get over how lucky I am to still have him around on nights like these.

9) Now, Marshall and I are serenading each other via webcam when I should just get over there so we can get some real work done. So, onto that, I guess. Tomorrow, I'll see Jeff (and everyone else) again, and actually make it to Poetics of Perception, and have a Xena day. Nothing's gonna stand in my way; I just can't allow for that. This week needs to be different, and it will. The Secret wills it so.

and if you knew how much I love you, baby, nothing could go wrong with you.

Got back to Asheville safely, and apparently haven't written since then. It's been, well - busy. And messy. But good, too. It's good to see all my favorites again, and to be back in classes, and to have sunshine and warm weather. It's good that I'm going to have a single in the Willage next year, and that nearly all my friends are moving there with me (not young Christopher, but he's the kind of friend I'd manage to see no matter what, so). It's good that the F-Word Film Festival is going on now, and that Headwaters is on its way to being ready for printing, and that Marshall and I are going out with one of my hands-down favorite professors tonight. I mean, lots of things are going really well, and all things are probably going much better than I deserve, at this point.

. . . And yet, this morning, I contemplated making an emergency counseling appointment, then decided not to - not because I don't really, really need someone objective to hear me out, but because emergency appointments are available for people who are in crisis and I can't bring myself to admit that, I don't feel entitled to someone's hour. I am a mess, though. I can't remember the last time I went for a day without crying, a lot, often to the point of throwing up, and I'm clearly unstable and things are starting to slip from me. It seems so stupidly small, though - getting an A- for the first time in a class I've always gotten perfect scores in is not going to sound like crisis to anyone. Even I realize how dumb it is. But also, I've missed five of the past six Poetics of Perception classes, and I was up in time to make it to all of them. I'm just so exhausted, and I wake from the worst nightmares and can't wake up enough, not quickly enough, to be okay enough for anyone to see me. (Except for my lucky girlfriend, who is too kind to me.) It's gotten cliche: I can't get out of bed in the morning. Not without crying for a long time and taking a long time to wake up and reorder my thoughts; not 'til my dreams have blurred enough that I can go on with my day. This is ridiculous, and pathetic, and it can't go on this way. I can't bring myself to take medication as an option, and I won't make an emergency appointment, so I just feel really stuck. And you know what? I fucking hate Jason, sometimes, and I am not a hateful person. I'll take the fall for all of my shit, because I am oversensitive and depressive anyway and I should have known enough to get the fuck out of that situation - or better, not to have gotten myself into it. So, okay, I have nightmares, and occasional panic attacks when I assume that a lamppost or television is a person who is going to violate me somehow, and I'll take all the credit for my response, but I hate what it's doing to Marshall, and that's why I hate him: for leaving a mess that no one else could possibly clean up, no matter how hard she tries. For being fine and happy and laughing like nothing ever happened at all.

This is a really long rant, and all I really wanted to say is that I'm sorry. I haven't seen enough of any of you, or called enough, or written enough, or extended myself in the way that I'm needing (and wanting) to, because I feel like a liability. I have a lot of shit together, and am working on it, and when I do see you guys, or catch up with you, it's always a bright point in a really tiring day, and I get to missing you all, so much. This is what's going on with me, and lots more that I can't even say to my counselor, and I'm kind of wrecked, but also, of course, to be right here, with so many good people and distractions and Edgar the fish and a weekend on its way. I've been given so many chances by so many people, and although it's time for me to be something more than lucky, I know, I really am. Lucky, that is, with so much coming up and so many to see me through it. So thank you for, you know, sticking around. I love you all.

Also, Jordanna is playing the Beach Boys, and "Don't Worry Baby" just came on and I am crying, but I mean, seriously? Something is looking out for me. Just like how, when I am really depressed and feel like I can't face something, I get "Fame" stuck in my head, like my subconscious is trying to cheer my on. Maggi would say, "How lucky, that this part of you is trying to protect you this way," and she'd be right.

your groove I do deeply dig.

Can't be long, 'cause I've got an empty suitcase, piles of things strewn all ovr my floor, and the most upbeat playlist in the world, so a dance party (and some packing) are in order. Speaking of packing, I will NOT forget to bring my brother's shirt back with me, even though it's what I wore last year for Queer Prom and that's sort of sad. But this year is going to be a whole lot hotter; with my fake penis, I can't go wrong. Plus, I'll actually have time to get ready, and Chris will be joining us, and there will be more strangers since it's a conference year. And it'll be the day of my first reading, so I'll be needing to kick back a little.

Had the craziest bad-body-image weekend ever, but didn't give in to old vices 'cause I couldn't bring myself to betray William Blake. Threw up anyway, after crying so much to my poor bewildered girlfriend who, to her credit, is really warm and patient and encouraging and full of praises I almost can't handle hearing, sometimes. She talked me through, and then down, and I was even able to go out and buy some jeans after that, which is a huge accomplishment. The night before I left Asheville for break, I was curled up in her bed and let it slip that, if I ever get through all this body image shit, it's going to be with her; she recognized the rare occasion and made me repeat myself into her tape recorder. So now I've got to stand by it and let someone into all of that, for the first time. It's frightening, but not as much as I'd anticipated. FACT.

Also got a webcam to even the score, and just finished talking to Marshall's mother over it. I don't know how I ever manage to get sad when my world is so fucking charmed.

I am listening to the song that plays in Sliding Doors when Gwyneth Paltrow kicks her slimy boyfriend to the curb and gets all her hair cut off. In just fifteen hours, I'll be back in Asheville, where it will be sunny and some great times are waiting for me. No, I didn't finish my story yet, but I've got some inspiration, thanks to Young Steven - who also informed me that Gay Day at Cedar Point is on Father's Day every year. Isn't that wild? We might have to stage a cruise reunion there, if we can rustle up some hot red tanktops and escape our houses with solid alibis. So I've got a fantastic summer shaping up, and it's not even April yet, and the snow here is melting, and Deelite just came on and I am not about to sit still for this. Goodnight, darlings; next time I'll write, I'll be back where I need to be.