overhaul / undertow

Saturday, May 29, 2004

...staying at my folks' place...

and all is good.

word up to zelda, struan, gus and my other readers; your love and kindness from distant places has been so amazing. and of course much love to my in-the-flesh friends!

I'll be back at my place in a day or two.

Friday, May 21, 2004

I just met Rosalyn.

Rosalyn McKnight, or her maiden name Keirn, or Kern since she used to take the "i" out when she wrote it.

These days she goes by Roz.

She's 91, lives in Glendale, and eats at Burger King every morning except Wednesdays and weekends. The dial-a-ride picks her up. She used to walk all over, but now her arthritis makes walking painful so she calls the dial-a-ride and sets appointments for two weeks ahead of time. She said she wants to die now, now that she can't walk.

Roz, I feel ya. I remember when I couldn't walk, when my rheumatoid arthritis was out of remission and was full-blown in my feet. I wanted to die too.

But seriously, Roz, we should all be so lucky as to be 91 and jaded. I'll be lucky if I live three more years to see thirty: your granddaughter is 32.

I plan to meet you again, Roz, next week at BK, and maybe we can set a time to go to the arboretum or something, see a movie.

I mean, I know you aren't supposed to just adopt-a-grandma at the local Burger King, but fuck it. Maybe you are.

and heaven, it is only morning
another morning
fall the light like brick'd angels
the light fell, the light fell all around me a slanting sleight of hand and eye
and jacaranda trees
laughing all around
how they do mark my passage years
how they do leave a trail
littered in oxygen and purple leave
I laughed out open windows as wind wound my hair to knots
and heaven came down
heaven came down

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

I think I'm getting the hang of this art-criticism thingy.

Mat Gleason has employed me off and on to date, writing essays on various and sundry gallery exhibitions. I've always felt unsuited for such work. I majored in art history at ucla but specialized in what approximates to medieval islamic art. I didn't take a single class in modern and contemporary art.

I feel like an artsy poser. A poseur.

But as I've done more and more, I've begun to feel more knowlegeable about it, to the point that now the artscene emails I get can be culled for what is "good" and what is "not".

Which is nice.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Life is difficult.

I am a badass

This is a photo Kevissimo (dude at left, blowing fire--see his amazing photography by clicking on his name, underneath) took of me fighting Jay, when we sparred during a gigsville camping trip. Jay is a specialist at escrima and karate. I was real proud when I actually won this match.

Hee hee.

Someday I'll get pics of me with the fire sword up here for you kids to see.

I came home from work today and flopped onto my bed. Instantly changed into sweats and a tank top. Tomorrow morning I'll resume going to the gym, but tonight is for reading.

When I was little I had a really shitty social life. I was an only child, socially inept, and felt more at home with adults than kids my own age. Therefore, at school, I was always a pariah, and prolly (in retrospect) partially through my own elitist attitude (or as much elitism as a little 8-year-old girl can muster).

Looking back at that paragraph, I see I still haven't stopped blaming myself for the hurt I went through back then. I blamed myself then, I still blame myself now. My, aren't we evolved.

Anyway, what saved me was books. Books books books. Tons of books. I learned to read while walking. I read through lunch and recess. When mean kids threw balls at me I could raise the book to block my face (this actually happened). Reading in the car left me nauseated, but I was so absorbed in my book that I'd stop reading, puke, go back to reading, puke again, read some more, etc etc. This distressed my mom a bit, but I didn't mind.

If a child can be suicidally depressed, I was (of course, I wasn't aware of it at the time...I just hated life). But books got me through. Books saved my life. I could dissappear into their world and it would feel more real, safer, more lifelike than the hell I was living at the time. I dissappeared into them like into the galley of a tiny ship, and weathered the storm 'til it was safe to come out.

So I've bought some new books.

Those of you who know why I'm in need of a life preserver to float my way on, know that this is the one that'll get me through. Writing and reading will save my life.

Ah, the light of the monitor. How it gilds my pallor.

Incidentally (or not) I pulled my mirrored closet door to the side as I laid on my bed. The surface of the mirror had accumulated that invisible-til-someone-touches-it surface that betrays every fingerprint. And there, on the door, was the pictogram:

An eye.
A heart.
The letter U.

Eye Love You.

MY ex-boyfriend Joe wrote it there almost exactly a year ago, shortly before I ended things. It would be exactly a year, now, actually, since I broke it off. Because it was at the May camping trip with gigsville (the one where I kicked Jay's arse! :) ) that I made my decision.

Wow. A year.

Written in dust. To remind me I'm loved...or at least, was loved...once, someone thought I was the best thing ever...I can hardly believe it still...

He is different now. We are uncomfortable when we see each other. But I still love him.

1. I do not clean my mirrors often.
2. I am glad about that.

Thursday, May 13, 2004

I got the cover story:

The LA Alternative Press.

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

damn cool


I rule this game.


Sunday, May 09, 2004

hey kids...

jaylinn here. having a smashing good time with the L-Train.

i love her like no other woman i have ever known.

she is my rock.....

and my salty dog.

Saturday, May 08, 2004

and now he's in san fran

It is so late I don’t know what time it is, and we are drunk, and the whiskey is almost gone. One more drink each and it’s really and truly gone. We are listening to the music, we are talking about it, waxing poetic, rhapsodizing eloquently about it, its brilliant exposition, its simplicity, its perfection.

It will never be this way again, either, this perfect between us.

The light is red and yellow and dim and good. We snuggle up close in my bed. We are face to face. We sing along with the music. It is the notwist’s song “consequence.” Right now, in our current state, it is the most plaintive swelling surge of longing ever put to music. It is wonderful. Never leave me paralyzed, it says. Leave me hypnotized, love. Leave me hypnotized…

“You’re singing in counterpoint,” he says, his voice low, his breath sweet in my face.

“I am?”

(I know I am.)

“Yeah, you were.”

“I didn’t know.”

(I feel smug.)



The ceiling could be three inches from my cheek, cool, turned to the air above me; my eyes take in the only space that matters, the space between our faces, his wonderful eyes. It will never be this way again, I never get things this good, and I must remember this forever.

We sing and sing, and we are so drunk, and we fall asleep like that, curled in each others’ arms. There has never been anything so wonderful, nor will there ever again.

When I wake he has turned to face the other way, and so have I, towards the cold glazed reflection of the mirrored closet door, the white walls and ceiling expanding away from me, the morning light sliding in coolly through the vacant space between the blades of the window blinds and the wall. I take a deep breath and it fills my lungs and I miss last night already, like a sharp knife against my lower ribs, and I have to face the day.

I never loved him—well, I never was in love with him, but still it ranks up there because never have I felt like,

just for once,

god relented and let me have the happiness I maybe did not deserve,

but which I wanted so terribly badly, just for a second.

For once the upper hand—which of course meant, for a woman, for once equal footing—

to be coveted, and to be coveted by someone beautiful, for once someone so pretty, a thing I’d always wanted but always had felt was beyond the pale of my reach

as a woman who wouldn’t tolerate shallowness and who could not be satisfied with anything petty and cheap (like a beautiful man)—

here was something that was not, yet still was everything I’d wanted—so pricelessly pretty—and for that second it meant my life might be all I ever wanted, all the good and lovely things my mother in her more shining moments had promised me as a child that I deserved—life to curl itself lovingly around my ankles, and present itself open and gifting, full of wonderful things to be had.

Friday, May 07, 2004

Dude, like, yeah

"Bohemian sounds like such a quaint phrase, but it's the realisation that the hours of your life are more valuable than the money that you can sell them for."
--Alex Kapranos, Franz Ferdinand, 3/27/04 NME

Thursday, May 06, 2004

So I'll be dying the hair again, but not sure what color.

Will meditate upon it.