Moving

I will be moving this blog elsewhere.

I'm lazy so it will probably be a tumblr.

If there are any readers out there, thank you.


Works Untitled

30

I've stopped and started numerous #30 posts.. deleted a few and drafted the rest. Maybe this time I will finally pull through.

I feel I come here in my moments of desperation. I feel like one of those people speaking into a camera during a crisis, panting heavily, sweating, and all the while maintaining the mantra, "Situation normal," repeating these two words in order to prevent their mouth from completing the anagram in their mind. Both hands on the lens, tilting it slightly - this is the director's way of showing everything is not okay, that things are off kilter.

It is as though I've gone through numerous periods of disenchantment... without ever having a recovery period. Maybe those are the periods in which little meddlesome things, or even the larger ones, are no longer meddlesome or are replaced by less meddlesome or non-meddlesome things and I don't pay attention to them and they go by because I am selfish and spoiled and I take things for granted. And when the meddlesome things return, I turn my hands in supplication to the sky and ask the heavens, "why?" as if something grave has been done to me. I don't even believe in a god. Which is more pathetic?

There is some wine here (but I'm still dead sober). Disenchantment with wine makes it noble, makes the mild suffering sophisticated. It isn't trite, it is human. Validation. That there was validation, and don't I know it. Always validating everything. This shirt was on the last-call rack and it was stained and size Large and it looked unloved so I got an extra 10% off so I'm saving even while I'm spending. I have talent, I'm sure of it, I got positive feedback from the one and only writing class I've ever been in. I haven't any talent because, without praise, my paycheck, my raison d'etre, I'm washed up. I'm smart, I'm sure of it, because I have high marks and a measly automated note printed on a thicker sheet adding me to dean's list each year; surely it just came out of nowhere because I always had mediocre marks before and thus was of mediocre intelligence.

Then maybe perhaps it is perception of the interior, the unknown truth that I ignore, or maybe even relegated, because my inner monologue is malignant and torturous and voiced by ghosts of my past; a decrepit hand cranking the gramophone, replaying all the shaming things I've ever heard ... all of these things combined placed up against the palpable and tangible. This parasite... validated, always validated, by everything else. And I haven't any Levaquin. And worst of all, my eyes are burning out of my head. The swing of things has yet to swing my way. I sleep but I might as well be awake.

I keep writing letters in my head. Letters that I'd write and crumple up, letters that I'd never send. Scribbles and etchings, eraser shavings ground into the page, always college ruled - my handwriting always slants terribly and it drives me crazy. But even the thought of giving the words the dignity of putting them to paper causes my cheeks to redden and then having to be confronted with their physicality, their reality, maybe one day cleaning the crammed bookshelves where I tucked it away from plain sight, my plain sight, would be to re-endure this torture in my head. There are words, viperous words, the curvature of their letters become fangs, and they haven't a place to go so they sink into my mind. I want to say all the things I want to say but I cannot and so in my heart they stay, turning bitter against the intended. Maybe this is why people grow to be so cold and sour - because all of the unsaid words, the unspoken curses the spoke to themselves, hurled with the same velocity back to the sender. The hate they have for everyone else becomes a hate for themselves. But what do I really know? It's always a surprise when I say anything at all, isn't it. Sometimes it's even introspective even if it isn't always grammatically correct.

Or maybe I'm just in a bad mood today and I'll feel better some other time. Why would it be anything at all?

29

There's something cavalier about people who are open and honest about children.

For example, the former grade school teacher turned stand-up comedian. Little did she know that dealing with snotty-nosed runts would prove to be a treasure trove of comedy gold. Louis C.K. joking about a horrible child in his daughter's class and the sniveling mother that made him that way. The parents on Reddit.com who find humor in the lot they drew when reproducing. There seems to be this necessity to think that children are forever perfect. And that parents will always be proper caregivers. What a fantasy.

I recall one day in my tutorial the discussion went around the table about what people needed to do to be happy. My professor began by stating that one needed to find the child within as the key. What ensued was a circle-jerk about how children are innocent and inherently good and adorable and perfect and they are content with the simplest of things and we should all learn from them. Was it not Jesus who said, "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt 18:3). Well, well, well. It was evident that all they were trying to do was repeat what he was saying so that he might bestow upon them some kind of praise. It seemed to me, however, that these people neither spent more than 10 minutes with a young child nor did they ever consider what a child is: a little person. I know I have not missed the point but let's just go with this. I was always, always made perfectly aware that I was a horror as a child. And so, if I were to look back and take a lesson for my child-self, what would I learn. The only way to get what you want is to cry and scream until people want to shut you up with buying you things that you don't need and will throw away in a matter of days. When I see things on television infomercials, I will simply assume that I absolutely need them and I thankfully am over the age of 18. Someone else will always clean you up when you defaecate all over yourself and others. You can never have enough pens and by consequence, your pencil case can never be too big. Hit people if they don't listen to you. Who ever needed nap time? Clearly someone whose guardian packs them an organic lunch void of high fructose corn syrup. Make someone else on the playground your bitch or you might get cut. When watching movies, only remember the curse words and shout them out at the most inappropriate times. When all of the kids in your grade mature much faster than you, you will never win until you grow boobs eventually. These nuggests of wisdom among many others my child-self would tell me how to achieve happiness or at least keep your head above water. I was not generally a happy kid, some reasons were entirely valid and some were not.

Sure, this argument is facetious. But it's nonsense to look at life this way.


And I'll save my rant for awful parenting when I'm in better humor.

28

It's 3-something in the morning.
Today I woke up in Stuyvesant, had too short of a goodbye, went to my apartment, cleaned all of the things, got picked up, bought spices, went to class, fixed another grad school hiccup (with some help), drove to NJ, talked politics, read all of Maus I and now I've finished occupying myself to keep my mind off of what's to come.

--

I wanted to write about my mounting anxiety,
I wrote a whole blog entry about it.
But I can't post it.

27

A Little Poem
Inspiration: Flaubert's Parrot - Julian Barnes

--

Cher Monsieur Braithwaite,

Cherchez-vous quelque chose?

Rawwwwk –

Forgive me –

Natural habit, you see.

The Truth?

O, you poor amateur sleuth,

I am he! I am he!

The bird with the i-rawwww-nic glare

On the desk of that bear,

Flaubert! Flaubert!

Oh, how he hated me so

“Tais-toi!”

“Tais-toi!”

“Tais-rawwwwk!”

But I had that je ne c’est quoi.

C’est moi!

C’est moi!

C’est moawwwk!

So, you’ve been looking for me?

Mais… je suis ici! Ici!

Quel i-rawwww-nie!

Alors, trouvez-vous quelque chose?

Bien alors, the case is closed.

Votre bon ami,

Le Parrot.

26

An Open Letter to Medievalist Princesses.

What on earth would Dyan Elliot think?
Do you have any idea who she is?

I was not even sure people like you existed until I was unfortunately confronted with one of your kind the other night. As a defecting medievalist, or a recovering medievalist, whichever you prefer, I have often contemplated why on earth someone gets into the medieval business at all. I say this because even medievalists realize the ridiculous nature of pursuing a time period that no one respects. And I say this because when I have informed all my medieval professors, they have all lunged across their desks, nearly grabbing my arms in a physical representation of the internal desire to keep the already miniscule community from shrinking any further. But it should seem strange to me that you should be accepted into this carefully screened community in which women seem to fall under two camps: militant feminists who fervently believe it is their duty to point out the egregiousness of medieval misogyny and hurtle insults at the entire millenia, as if this did any good at all, holding it accountable for our troubles to this very day. And then there are those women who sheepishly cough, rubbing and hugging their arms, trying to salvage the time period or even reclaim it by searching for those glimpses into a hidden reality in which women did have some place other than religious or royal servants. This reality, however, is purely argumentative. But the real point of this letter is you. Where on earth do you fit? How have you not been chewed out by some witch holding tenure? I have been chewed out by one such individual for repeating what another medievalist has said.... and you are free to frolic unscathed.

I can understand why some may allow you to continue this fantasy. This response feels similar to those wide-eyed reactions I recieve when I admit I am defecting. There is a need to preserve a dying community it seems and any motivation is good motivation in their eyes. To be honest, I did not even know people like you existed. Of course, I posited that some people read Arthurian legends or watched the Princess Bride a few too many times and decided to go find more. You watched Cinderella alongside the royal wedding, planning your wedding gown along with your assassination of Kate Middleton. It's all very perfect really, at the stroke of midnight, she slips and slices her throat on some broken glass slipper and you are there to nurse the handsome, young, balding prince through this difficult time. Really now, was this your preparation for a position at a prestigious institution? You live in a fantasy world. I cannot say you give medievalist women a bad name because I was only aware that you existed beyond my imagination nigh 48 hours ago but now that I am aware of your existence I have no choice but to reprimand you for giving medievalist women a bad name. You will go on to write romance novels in the guise of historical fiction and send it off as literature and the some girl in my former high school might be forced to read your rubbish and take it as truth. You will inherit the world Anya Seton has left for you in her legacy and run with it.

And why should I bemoan this? The Middle Ages hardly get a spotlight and women of the Middle Ages even less, lest you are of extorting some medieval celebrity like Elenore of Aquitaine or Hildegard von Bingen. Any press is good press, no? But perhaps this is what I mean. You will undoubtedly get more attention and pervade an image that so many medievalists had been fighting against. I imagine you are just a victim of the Disney affect and that you will have you dream wedding at the Polynesian Resort and Spa in Orlando, Florida or you will ask your father for a rhinestone encrusted pumpkin carriage to pull up to the parking lot of your local catering venue but that you demand to be taken seriously with your Bachelor of Arts in Medieval and Renaissance studies is what I cannot seem to abide.

Leave this to the women with PhD's in kicking some real medieval ass, please.

25

An Open Letter to the Bearded Fellow Who Fancies Himself a Poet

Let us be clear about one thing: I despise you.

Alright- now that is out of the way, we can really get down to brass tax.
First of all, I did not hear a word of your ridiculous poem... I was on my fourth or fifth glass of free wine, which was absolutely delicious, I might add. But I remember hearing you say a few "fuck"'s and "shit"'s and, to be completely honest with you, they were not there for poetic value but rather because you thought they would make your poem dark and risqué. Since it left no real impression on me expect for a general feeling of disgust, I can tell you that your poem was neither dark nor risque but entirely distasteful. But I know you never asked me for my opinion and judging by your appearance, you could not give a good god damn about my opinion. But also judging by your appearance, you do entirely.

Oh- let us not forget your appearance. This was not your first offense to be sure but this one really took the cake for me personally. Our mutual acquaintance, who I assume is your benefactor in all of these matters, specifically stated that these events require elegance and grace... the venue posting a strictly enforced dress code on their website. But you, you burgeoning artist, you believe you are exempt from these niceties and nuances. The depth of your intellect requires the hardiest of flannel and the scruffiest of beards while you hope these articles distract from the fact that you are, in truth, comfortably supported by your wealthy father and thus posses designer jeans. Who am I to argue that someone of comfortable means can be deep and pensive? Certainly not. However, you seem to be going for a ... an artistic lumberjack? Dare I say... hipster? Oh, sir, surely you would protest and yet your beard is unkempt and your are, in fact, wearing jeans to an elegant affair. What other conclusion can I draw? You simply think you are above us ignorant swine who trot around in our suits and cocktail dresses brandishing our free alcoholic beverages and speaking in forced allegory. But how can I forget the days when your hair was trimmed and your face was clean shaven but you still stared out at all of us with your beady eyes. It always appeared, and still does to this day, that the bags hang beneath your eyes from weary nights filled with attempting the deepest contemplation only to watch the sunrise after a night of hunting through the thesaurus to no avail. I remember that the length of your shoes always attempted to compensate what you lack in stature, in intellect and.. well... elsewhere. I remember your copy of Dante was an antique and your Italian was sparse, I assume you believed it was enough to get you laid. You contributed little more than the brushing away of hair from you eyes. Your final project was long and boring and I sincerely wish I had been drunk. I honestly cannot remember a word of it save for your tone, dark and moody, and your professor, avid and getting hard with every line he regurgitated at you.

But, the heart of the matter lies unspoken.
Why do I despise you?

Do I despise you like I despise Christians (all religious people, I should clarify)? Perhaps that's it. I despise you because you encompass all that I despise of an imagined collective. You are a delegate of a percieved "other", an other comprised of artists, poets, and individuals of the like who soaked in their education and believed they had the creative capacity to vomit it back up upon a page with some semblance of originality; who believed they knew more than anyone else because they read one more Sonnet by Shakespeare or had their testicles fondled by their professor, metaphorically speaking of course (or not, we cannot rule anything out. This is NYU after all).

But there is an added valence to the matter, an underlining nature that seems almost dire to this situation. In other words, a percieved threat. I have no real qualms with you aside from your lack of respect for... anything really. You are no scorned lover, no failed friendship, you are a nothing in my life. And still this animosity exists each time I see you. It usually occurs in my visceral response to you wearing jeans at an affair that demands your respect - especially because it is you who is being recognized. I, sitting on the periphery in my pearls, go unrecognized and unnoticed. My intellect bypassed by other, more superficial qualities that I am supposedly to feel gratitude for. Is this why I despise you? Perhaps. That I am invited to hear someone lesser than I placed upon a pedestal, extolled for their virtues that clearly do not exist and if they do, are nowhere near natural but rather are an entire facade, a sham, a character ... all this provokes in me ire from deep within that has nowhere to go but the endless abyss of the internet. You are fawned over, you are tolerated, your vapid ramblings are worshiped by superiors for being edgy and interesting, and you are paraded around as a symbol of something I would abhor to be but one I crave nevertheless. Your babble, your sputtering, your ridiculous ramblings.... are tolerated, celebrated, awarded, and lauded. Your jacked off incessantly and I cannot tell who I should blame: you or those who love you. And do I blame them for loving your or for not loving me. Is it all jealousy or is it something more? I am often jealous but I feel you represent something entirely more reprehensible.

I'm not sure how to end these things.
I'm sure they require something rather polite given the whole passive-aggressive nature of these open letters.
But I feel perfectly content with the fact that you probably heard me bad-mouth you and you caught me sending telepathic daggers at you from across the room.

Get a button-down for Christ's sake.