Excuse the sentimentality. Here's a rarity:

I am everything but lonely when I am alone.

Alex asked me today why I went back to school and why I went back for writing instead of art. This is my favorite question he has asked me recently.

I am not in school for writing. I always write. The two are happening simultaneously.
In short:
I write because I can not do anything else with compulsion and passion in a fulfilling way. Writing lets my cloud bursts come in aisle three. My water breaks on the six train. I get a nosebleed while I'm driving. Right before I go to bed I write a novel. Most of this is gone before I can write it down. I am not some uber productive Tolkien unrevised hobbit of the pen. NO. Sometimes some words slide out...
I have a tapeworm that eats my words and makes my sentences skinny when spoken aloud. But it's all there buddy... it's brewing. Live. active. generating.

Inside my head I've got the bloat- a parasitic consumption of letters and punctuation. Rotund and starving, digesting and discarding. Sometimes it's raining and sometimes it's all sorts of precipitation. I've got a lot of weather between my ears. Sometimes I think I can't hear because of all the thunderclaps that mimic awkward applause, or the subtle roar of booing.

It doesn't matter if you aren't God's gift to some prize or short-list. If you do it out of passion, you own it.

A lot of this ranting is coming from my cleaning and sorting through old papers. I'm downsizing my archive in a serious way. When I say archive, I'm referring to a collection going back to journals that are purple from fourth grade and contain my first handwritten poems. There are also quips ("I don't like teacher so and so because when he turns off the lights to get our attention his shirt becomes untucked and I can see all of his hairy belly." God help me. It was 1994. I love hairy bellies now!- and also...bellies-ahem) Sorting through this is a draining chore. I can't let go of the written word. Unfortunately, it stacks up to my height.

On to the next one:
I never feel alone when I'm writing. I never feel alone when I'm alone. I can go a surprising amount of time without conversation. Analyze that to death if you like. Let me give you some hints: I came from a fighting family, I still have a fighting tongue, I'm always in love with something or someone, I'm always worried and anxious... I can spend days on end in the woods with a bottle of gin, my favorite book, a bowl of grapes and a baguette.

This is getting personal.
Forward>>
Boil down:
With people - mis communication and the sudden urge to snorkel with them so we can be underwater and together and make noises of exclamation about beautiful things without describing them and blabbing.

Without people - missing the touch. feeling the weather.

This in know way undercuts my absolute love for people. I would just about curl up and die if I couldn't snuggle or make divine connections with really special souls. The older I become, the more I think I would have a grand time holding hands and singing songs instead of saying: "BITCH PLEASE."

New York is such a ginger root.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
So I write because I can't NOT write.
I write when I can and sometimes I just sit in my car facing the Long Island Sound thinking: remember to download this song... remember to... remember. Remember to write down what that fisherman is wearing. Usually I revel in that moment. There's a slight chance that those moments will make it into my upcoming portfolio.

I've got three poems I'm editing. One is serious, the others are on the dangerous verge of straight malarkey. Reuben helped me with one. Workshopping helped even more. Meena has been helpful in her graceful and fluid way. The Olivetree is always filled with the best mashed potatoes. If we were a holiday we'd be Thanksgiving. All the components are overwhelmingly different and complimentary. I've loved getting serious there lately. It's fun to show up naked in liquid latex, but the it's better to me a marshmallow of repressed feelings on a red couch and explode, no? I digress. I digest!

Love,
Rebecca.

solar powered heart.

In the past month:

-My Uncle G(atsby) mailed me tickets to the philharmonic. My mom and I saw Mitsuko Uchida do Ravel's Piano Concerto in G major (It was amazing. Mitsuko speaks a lost language found only in her finger bones and the three small ones in the ear.) Then we saw Schubert's Symphony in C major. It was late an I was tired. It was amazing, but 50 minutes. I'm not that advanced.

-I wrote a couple of poems. I'm working on some non-fiction.

- other things. hunter college things. odes to stuff. mums the word. all i do is work. and sleep. all i do is read d-listed and drink tea. i bought some new teas...i really like the masala chai. bought tin house. one really weird good story in there. dialogues of departure by stephen heighton. finished that oscar hijuelos book. empress of the splendid season. rode the subway late at night and kind of passed out: mistake. didn't go to any stupid parties, just a good one thrown by the otr. i'd like a cat. i'm excited to go see melvins. people from all around will be coming and we're gonna have funnnn. my dad and i explored a basement. sawdusty. some old habits grew back because it's spring. all i'm thinking about is setting up summer and new paltz. i think about new paltz constantly. i miss alex. all of them. all 3. i wonder how high the grass is- how bad the ticks are. some things are not fun at all but waking up just right is high ranking on fun. when you wake up and you feel the cold but the heat is brewing on the outside and the weeds are soaking it up and the old VW GTI was still around (the first one) and the hills were mountains and sailing down them was this bliss i felt in my teeth and the pores on my forehead. also i got a haircut from bumble and bumble. they didn't fuck it up and i left feeling light, and i sat on 8th avenue and 13th and had a spoon and ate some lock and lock lunch. there is some guy who knits full body suits on the subway but i've never seen him in real life...just pictures. there is a funny feeling in my tummy so i'm going to bunker down.

lockbox with a prybar. 2009 kickstart and freezepop.

let me.
entertain you.

i went to see gypsy with mom. my christmas gift to her (the big one anyway...she needed something tangible to open on christmas since it's just her and i now...so some sweater giving was involved). patti lupone is over-rated. she was great but i think i'm spoiled by the movie version. i wasn't fond of the way patti-lu held her notes and then warbled them into oblivion with the orchestra taking her out loudly. call me picky. pick me.

break has been tense. tense because all i can do is work those two days of pure joy with the kids im growing with. i am tense because i don't have the added tension of deadlines, rendering me into a self loathing unmotivated beast of heavy handed snooze slaps on the alarm clock. i usually look forward to this time...and it honestly hasn't been that bad. my friend visited from cali (and while i'm too broke to reciprocate the trip to his LA playground i was thrilled to chills when i saw him standing on the street in greenpoint, felt like everything was RIGHT). my other friend, the one i visited in olympia last year, came to ny and i saw her briefly. then they were gone.
and i had my savings. and i had my undershirts. and i was warm, briefly.

i bought a camera with those savings (great inspirational pressure led to this financial whirlpool) and it was a GREAT idea. i missed constant documentation with an SLR. NIKOND80.
i went to some parties (and that was fun), but i really liked going to bluestockings and seeing an awesome queer memoirist read from her book. and i really liked reconnecting with browning leaves that mulched my ears.
i got into blackadder.
mom bought me HBO (what is this luxury??? she is changing our lives in subtle TV channel additions and the plaster of my ceiling is getting caught in my hair) The TV goes when the books start brewing and being dissected under direction. resolution.


last semester did me right. i felt this good (albeit high-strung) connection to what i was doing. most of my friends from around here have graduated and have jobs or are living off trusts or working really hard so i feel like the oddball who has to juggle stress and money and smuggle smiles closed eyed in the florescence of the commute home. i loved reading at the telephone bar. i was terrified. i like being terrified in that context.

i've forgotten how to write sentences. i was writing a thank you note to a very dear cousin of mine who is a most talented women with the most fetching personality and i felt like apologizing towards the end for the horrible syntax. [but] fuckit, it was on my good stationary and i posted it post haste to get it out of sight.

i am excited to set up my writing/creative studio. i want a fainting couch (it's become an obsession). i want a book i can actually read. i've only bought books that are ten feet tall lately. i subscribed to a magazine. beginning of the year- new moleskine time. (haven't gotten to that yet...printer cartridge too) - when the first class of 09 starts i'll retire the one i have. i am proud of my journaling this year. so proud it'll be put in the lockbox with the other serious transitional pieces dating back to my first fuck, first line of coke and first kiss with a girl. had some firsts this past year. locked in with the naked photos and zines.

a "best of 2008" list would be overkill.
im feeling good and hope to meet my own deadlines this year. i want to cook more. i bruised easily this week. i will organize my computer files and papers and studio and limbs into movement and leave the cold inside my jacket when i collapse into the incandescent lightfield i've laced my room with. this is brocade. this is crochet. this is highly complicated structurally demanding networks of dependent elements making new prospects under the microscope of high hopes. this is porous bone passed around.

Hope I don't feel differently tomorrow.

The human body. Created for all of the struggle that can be felt by the gifts we were blessed with!

For a while now I have had a terrible attitude about money. I grew up on the disadvantaged side of the spectrum because of a whole lot of bad decisions my parents made. Staying together, over-estimating people skills. You get the idea. I've known work from a very young age which has it's drawbacks.
For one, you grow up resenting those with no work ethic. I may be lazy when it comes to buckling down and concentrating on details, but I've been beating up the big picture pussy with a dick the size of a bayonet [I'm very old-fashioned].
Excuse the terrible reference and slight to women. Where I'm from it becomes a part of your everyday language. Instead of erasing that, I'd thought I'd give you a peep into what commuting on the NYC Subway is like. Day in and day out.

Of course I'm aching and dying step by step and I reach my front door and the elevator is going to be out for two months and I turn the key and sigh and walk up the flights with the ole "I didn't die on the last landing, I ain't gonna die on this one" attitude.

Back to money though. It's when I'm at my most tired that I really do NOT care. Heading into this gloomy recession has hit me hard. I'm really poor in every sense of the word. At least in the sense that I can not take you out to dinner and I steal rolls from the cafeteria and I will make you a Valentine's Day card with stale markers and you will think I'm creative but really wouldn't we all like chocolates and don't you think I need a haircut and health insurance? Seriously though. I honestly think of my father coming to this country and only having a radio to occupy his home time. Or, of course, interaction with family. OR just hanging out on the corner with people before the days of invasive ring tones and clothing for dogs.

The thing is, I can fall just as deep into the gold filled rabbit hole. I like to spend money because it's such a stupid thing. I'll give you this if you give me that. In reality I don't need what you have unless it is knowledge you are imparting or the ride it takes to get me there. I have a nice watch I don't need and my ex-boyfriend actually buys me stockings and feeds me when I don't have food in my house. I can not put a price on good company or a good show versus an ankle sweller and skull crusher [I'm a fragile boned lady, ask my PediR]. I can not put a price on sidling up to someone with a cheap beer and feeling them out. If someone kicks a trash can and startles a Goddamn CAT I can not recreate the moment of 4:30 am deserted Brooklyn streets. This is my version of "money can't buy you love" or "I will not contemplate slaughtering that woman who is wearing a full length fur in april, for she is radiant in ignorance and rich in a nose broken on purpose to smell the richness of her own shit." vampires of zanzibar. sensory overload!

I always think if I can't live anymore or I lose my house or shelter, if I lose my family, if I ruin everything, I'll just go back to the dirt and make january nights smell like the butter of bare damp trees. yum.

You tend to write uplifting things at the craziest of times. fuckit.

working title.

or "return to the big screen", "post-partum woes", "beached icicles: beast tricycles"
:
"everybody hurts"

I went to my car tonight and was surprised not by the sight of it, but by what was inside. Gee wiz, it was a whole bunch of feelings!
Let me explain:

Today was one of those days that everyone has. It wasn't exactly "fuck the world." It was more of a day that turns into conflict and leaves you a little bit breathless. In my case, it meant a bit of sniffling as I took out my keys to my car with readiness to go home.
I shoved my things into the passengers seat and started her up. As soon as I did I was flooded by Q104.3's (self-proclaimed "classic rock" station) sweet melodies. I changed to power105 without registering what was on and then switched back in a powerplay that involved NOT hearing duffle-bag boy song. Truly, my subconscious was on high alert, as R.E.M's "everybody hurts" was at the crux of it's sweet gnashing. This is the way my life is. I laughed a little at the situation and then returned to my sniveling briefly. The song ended and another came on. Before I knew it I was cursing in traffic and salt stained on my dry cheekbones.
This is what happens. It's not a sign, it's just the way things are. (Insert bro statement if applicable).

The breaking point has been set high lately. I've been taking things in stride, trying to do my best, all of that inspirational shit.
It's just that when things go wrong the problems swell until the emotions are saturated. In dealing with people you have a connection with, it's often hard to be persistent with communications of unhappiness or displeasure. In my experience, whiners suck and are a helpless breed. Yes, I've got some things that I won't share with anyone, immediate family aside. I feel I shouldn't have to take on the worlds problems. One problem at a time towards the solution. Heath Ledger died dude. Amy Winehouse is hitting the crackpipe. The world is upset and I'm trying to find out the forecast for tomorrow.

But, in the event that I void myself of the truly pertinent material that does, indeed, fabricate the mysterious bridge of laced fingers or phone conversations over five minutes, I like to have a retainer and not a barrier. Bluntly: I can be blunt. Some call it a flaw, others don't even call me on it. I realize it. When emotions leak and the pipes burst and doves cry, I'm greeted [nameless] in a manner I would never think to inflict on anyone. Sometimes I have to remind or simply state that: I am not a robot. I may not show all of the inner brew ALL of the time. FINE. But then I was told,
have more spine.
That really ticks me off. Makes me tingle. Makes me cringe. Makes me turn from a "sad" tear to a tiny laugh of disbelief and disgust. Some people go to any lengths to justify their black holes and common noticeable flaws. Some even go to other "states" to realize that they can't escape the reality that claims itself in one's roots. You have to let people go and figure things out for themselves. They'll either quell that demon or wind up in the same spot and in a similar situation. Motivation. rah-rah!
It's not always about leaving or wishing to leave, or leaving your old self, OR leaving the world with the aid of socializing, booze, or crutches. We all do similar things with our ideals and notions of reality.
"This is MY club, this is MY party, MY life, the way I am."
Yeah. I can get down with that to an extent.
It's the growing up comedown. Not getting older, but shedding some skin, seeing documented metamorphisis. It's THE life. "I joined your/the party and it's been A ride". If we can't get into OUR reality, dig ourselves out of OUR joint problem or even YOUR problem and MY problem butting heads... the least we can do is recognize it and accept it. We can use it to help us in our reality and bring it into the party. [Growing up is hard to do. There are fantastic double-standards, but high living with someone else blowing wind in patchy sails leaves one in Bermuda Triangle territory. I realize I'm taking the example too far. Party boat. There I'm done].

I guess clearing out the damage isn't permanent medicine. It's our dose of reality in a generous measurement.
Chronic.les.