Life is long. And you are hot.

One of my favorite Doctor Who episodes is courtesy of Sally Sparrow.  What a sweet, sad, horrible, notthatheavyonTheDoctor episode.  The Weeping Angels are the scariest.  That must be a personality test online.  Your Least Favorite Doctor Who Nemesis and What That Says About You.

Anyway.  It's spring.  And time for cleaning, and love and sex and blooming trees and Accomplishing Things and Drinking Wine and hydrating a lot and riding bikes and Fuck the Diet.  Well, not really.  I transgress...ish?  And then I remember that I make the rules and blah blah blah.  I can be sad (?) about my 1920s body when it's winter and I have to pretend to be Boticelli's The Birth of Venus.  In the meantime: all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.  Until the next crisis.  Duh.  Of course.

Alaska's been having a bona fide heat wave.
I'm trying to figure out how to reconcile Mae West with Debussy with Lykke Li with The Sex Pistols.  (That says a lot about me, I suppose.  None of it contradictory.)

So....  I have to write a monologue about something I wish I'd said to someone else.  Maybe in response to something they said to me.  Something I wish I'd done.  I interpret this as me not taking responsibility.  Being afraid.  I don't think there have been many instance of that in my life.  Time without number, sure.  Sometimes there wasn't anything to say that would have helped.

Sometimes I'm still not sure what I should have done.  Should have said.  The big important things I've tried to take responsibility for.  Relationships with parents.  Relationships with siblings.  Relationships with significant others.  ...with one notable exception.

I find that really what I would do, if I could do anything would be to erase.  Not a very flattering thing. Not a good thing, certainly.  But a true thing.  The things that have grown into weird shapes undermining the person I'm trying to be now.  The perfectly true processes I went through that are now jokes.  Bad jokes.  Because all the people who went through these things with me, who were my friends and who said they'd be my friends 4EVAR (God, that sounds pathetic, doesn't it?  Still hurts, guys.  Still hurts.).  Or at least for the next few years, I guess, are now involved in their own lives to an extent that gives me the icy shoulder.

That's the way things go.  That's a part of growing up, and it sucks.  With all this globalization and connectivity and the people who fucking SKYPE for Chrissakes....  You don't choose to text me back?  It's a choice.  It says something to me that is true and negative and that I take to heart.

And that kinda makes me not want to reach out anymore.  I think I've written about this before.  The  difficulty of connecting with new people when you really liked the old ones.  When the dimensions of experience available with the old ones was not nearly spent.  When the new people are just going to leave.  Or have needs you're not going to be able to meet.  Or die.  Or outright reject you.  Or attempt to make you change who you are for no apparent good reason.

Jill just plain got tired of my shit.  College was extremely socially awkward times, man.  Necessary, but God.  So sorry.  Totally get it, guys.

I feared Bri would judge me for the non-Christian life choices I'd made.  So I stopped answering the phone and eventually she stopped trying.  This was a terrible decision on my part, as I loved Bri and she was by far the most supportive friend I've had with the exception of Katie.

Roman got sick and left.  He was in terrible pain.  I had to disconnect to keep from going crazy.

Luke had a life in Chicago and then Las Vegas that he needed to connect with more than me.  Plus it's not necessarily healthy to live vicariously through ones gay ex-boyfriend, amirite?

I don't know why Tyler abandoned me.  Not exactly.  There are lots of possible reasons.  Maybe all of them.  This is a big problem for me, though.  Because he'd seen the worst of me and helped me through some hard things.  Maybe I'm just too big a problem to have around in a person's life for extended periods.

tbc.

alright; I'm off this train ride

Let's all get high and go to a con next year.  I'll start working on my abs and my costume now if you'll provide the Mara Jade.

teh crush blog

It is a time-honored tradition.  Almost since there have been blogs, written communication, the internet.  There have been crush-blogs.  But why?  Since I'm dealing with some current springtime real-life crushness (which is always beyond awkward, amirite?) the why seems like a thing of immediate importance.

I was talking with a friend last year sometime about crushes.  His theory was that it was kind of an evolutionary drive.  That we're designed to always be crowd-searching for the best possible potential mate.  And thus bettering ourselves to increase the likelihood of gaining the potential mate.  So maybe that's the point of it all.  

My personal theory is that crushes tend to be the people we most want to be like.  I'm all for bisexual tendencies and outright non-hetero behavior, so obviously that's not all it is.  But there's some attraction in clinging to the notion that maybe this silly desire can be personally constructive, eh?

Erinn Hayes
She's rocketed to the top of my list lately, due to Children's Hospital suddenly being available on Instantwatch.  I remember her well from Kitchen Confidential.  Hot, raunchy, sarcastic - the whole ciabatta.  Remember the naughty picture battle she had with that sous chef in Kitchen Confidential?  No?  Signature hairflip?  Anyway.  You should.  Hulu that shit.  Erinn Hayes.  

Gael Garcia Bernal
Maybe you remember Gael from The Motorcycle Diaries.  Science of Sleep?  Casa de Mi Padre?  No?  Then perhaps you're more familiar with his work in that regrettable Kate Hudson movie from that one year.  Or his immortal Latin language cover of "I Want You To Want Me". He's kind of a big deal.  Probably has many leather-bound books.  Moreover, I guarantee that trilingual, socially-conscious Mexican dreamboats who can make comedy their bitch and tragedy their sycophant do not just grow on trees, guys.  You should read his Wikipedia bio.  It's pretty swoony.

Jenna Marbles
I just discovered Jenna this year.  I know, I know.  I'm late to the party.  Like, past fashionably late into the part of the night where everybody's already so drunk that nobody's going to realize I've shown up at all if I don't do some quick Instagramming.  Be that as it may!  Jenna.   JennaJennaJenna.  Jenna's bangin', nerdy , smart, brave enough to get drunk in public on the internet (which basically means she has more balls than all y'all) and a recipient of the James Joyce Award.  For her YouTube channel.  Ireland loves her, so should you. 

Danisnotonfire

Let's keep with the YouTuber theme, shall we?  Yes, lets!  Why am I writing all like I like the Union Jack?  Because Danisnotonfire is British.  From what I gather he's one of the people who started what we old people used to call a vlog?  I think?  See, I was never cool enough to Know Things Like That when they were first starting.  The venture took off and the appeal is that he's acerbic, funny, nerdy, self-deprecating, an escapist and likes A. A. Milne and Studio Ghibli a great deal.  He's a cute nerd-do-well and that's pretty endearing.  It's a Cinderella story, really.

Amanda Fucking Palmer

AFP is probably best known as the heart and soul of The Dresden Dolls.  Have you ever heard "Coin Operated Boy"?  Yeah.  That was her.  For sheer sexiness, punk-rock attitude, performance energy and commitment to her fan-base one can do no better than Amanda.  She tweets, she blogs, she does TED Talks and has this sooooo apparent, enviable understanding of the holistic relationship the minutes and hours of an artist's life must have with their art as a whole.  It's rad.  Oh yeah, and she's married to Neil Gaiman.  If you're into that sort of thing.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt

So this is The Big One.  This is my husband, my main man, my homie, my guy I'm all like, "Dude, just pick up some beer or something on the way home but whatever just get here so we can, like, get it on, already."  Or (I totes can't decide) maybe write some Tiny Stories together.  Which actually is not a euphemism.  Joe is hot.  Joe is a good actor.  I fully expect Joe to be a good director, although I have not seen Don Jon yet.  But where Joe really makes me silly, melty, fulloncan'ttalkorbreathesmitten lies proximal to the work he does with hitRECord and the Tiny Book of Tiny Stories series.  It's feckin' inspirational, gives me hope 'n that for the future of collaborative arts.   

Charlotte Gainsbourg
Charlotte's one of my favorites because she's elegant, magnetic, compelling to listen to and watch and intelligent and well-heeled.  She also seems like a real person, which is passing rare in this day and age.  Especially since she's the daughter of a celebrated model and a continental European crooner-God.  Her speaking voice is rather lovely too.  (Bonus.)

Moshe Kasher

Netflix recently turned me onto Moshe Kasher and I've been telling everybody to go watch the one.  Special.  He.  Has.  Because apparently there only is one.  (You have no idea how many negative feelings that makes me feel.  Want moar, plz.)  Every once in a while I'll find a comic that I just...watch.  Over.  And over.  And over again.  And since right before Christmas that comic has been Moshe.  Before Moshe it was John Waters, if that gives you an idea of aesthetic we're working with here.  But: yes. Articulate, funny, awesome pacing.

Kate Beaton

Okay, so, you know I'm a tiny little bit of a history nerd, right?  Not a lot.  When I say tiny, I mean tiny.  I also mean more than average and less than the people who got their secondary degree regarding a specialized chunk o' time.  And you know I'm pretty down with comics and nerdery of various kinds, I assume?  Dunno why that's assumed.  I just suppose it to be plastered on my forehead.  With all this information in mind it makes perfect sense that Kate Beaton would be my girl-crush.  She's a comic book artist who almost exclusively addresses all of the above with this groovy feminist vibe.  Plus her drawing style puts me in mind of the 70s.  Fantastic!

John Darnielle

It's been said many times.  I'm going to say it again!  This man is the Bob Dylan of my generation.  And the generation before us.  And maybe the generation after us.  Not very many people are paying attention...but more are now than ever before.  We'll get there.  John is one of the most gifted English lyricists now living.  Gods, demons, relationships, love, hate, butterflies, death, disease and every part of life that's too often neglected or gentrified in much music.  It's all there.  And there is a mind-blowing amount of material to get lost in.  No matter what specific emotionally charged situation you're in, I will bet you John has been there and written a song about it.  It's up to you to find it.  The pleasure's in the hunt, though, isn't it?

So that's it for another year.  

thursday

Sometimes (often) I get so caught up in the people, activities, events that surround me I forget that these people, things don't make me...well...me.  Hell, they don't even pay me.  They affirm me plenty, but I'm of the mind that I need to affirm myself to be psychologically well, etc.  So it's nice, but not essential.

• Clara, you are worrying about things that haven't happened yet.  Yes, they probably will.  But they haven't yet.  And when they do you will be equal to dealing with them.  It's okay.
• How people treat and view me reflects on them.  Not me.  Duh, right?
• I want to help you, but I don't want to machete my way through your insecurities.  I'm not your fucking girlfriend.  And I dare guess that we're wired the same in a lot of ways.  Which means there's probably no way to "win" at the game of you.  At least not and keep my own sanity.  At least not yet.
• I can take a hint; it's one of the things I like about myself.
• Can't remember why I'm doing this in the first place.  Body control, yes?  A lifelong pursuit.
• I'm performing so that I can do the other things.  Still waiting on the other things.

I'm not just a dancer.  In fact, I feel like I'm barely a dancer.  Barely a performer.  Liken my life to come as a simile: the college professors who think you are doing nothing with your life besides taking their class.  Too bad, so sadly not the case.

"And if I loved you Wednesday,   
Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday—    So much is true.

And why you come complaining   
Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what   
Is that to me?"

Edna St. Vincent-Millay

creep

You're so fucking special.  I wish I were
a) special
or b) could fade away like a stranger's shadow in a club.  Completely.  Painlessly.

How German/emo/teenager, right?  Ah, well.  I'm on the rag (kinda).  And one has to keep ones sh*t together around little ones.

It's funny.  The more I'm around kids the more I realize that I do want one.  And that I couldn't possibly do my job and have a kid.  It's just not practical.  And my good peasant stock blood is appalled at all sorts of things I do.  I assume my body would reject itself if I did something like work solely to pay for the cost of childcare just because I like my job.

(I secretly think I would work up until about four weeks after maternity leave terminated and then turn in my notice or switch to part-time; spend the rest of the time raising spawn and doing freelance work.  Doesn't everyone?  I mean to say.)

The world would probably go on spinning and all, but just because it's relentless that way.

Would it be better to be more nomadic?

Worse to plant?

What?  More people vs. less people?  It seems I can't do much beyond 3 years.  And then those things do not maintain.  Not really.  Not in my heart, my head, my blood.  It's just my personality type, I know.  But, oh man.  AwKwArD.

But things are mainly okay.  One more Big Performance.  Things Are Happening.

Motions are being made.  It's looking like I'll be able to do my own thing (if I want and can gently make out with The Fear, banishing it to others), teaching-wise rather than being tethered to a studio.  Which might be for the best, I don't know.  I do appreciate the art of the subtle kiss-off.  So I ain't mad.

With Alice's love.

4.48 Asscosis

The thing about doing a play about depression, psychosis and suicide is that it brings your coping mechanisms to the fore.  Sometimes that coping is outed as a propensity to turn everything and vulgar and ass oriented.

Sometimes it manifests as an interest in stories of past lives.

I used to watch It's a Wonderful Life obsessively as a small child.  I abruptly stopped around age 4.  I have no memory of doing this.  And even watching the movie these days doesn't "ring a bell", as it were.  See what I did there?

But, you know, the whole movie was a massive, classic near-death experience.

I had imaginary friends; I think they were named Frank and Jerry or Jerry and Riley.  I don't really remember very well. I know that they were there in California and for part of Texas.  But they vanished sometime around age 5.

I feel as though I died of drowning in a past life.

I feel as though I was pregnant in a past life.

I feel as though hands and/or feet were amputated somehow in a past life.

I have a friend or two I think I knew in a past life.  Maybe my mother.  No more than that so far as I know.

People consistently seem afraid of me, or like me a lot.  Or both.

I wish I knew more.  It's quite difficult to say what with the sheer amount of stimulus one has in a life.  Especially in these times.

it goes like this this is how it goes

...so now I begin reminding myself that there is something blacker than what is.  What was.  These spaces between what I wish for and what I will actually get.  The vague despair; wrenching at the idea of wanting -- anything.  Deserving -- anything.

I feel that the future is hopeless and that things cannot possibly improve.

Let it all go.

I tell myself that it's all right.

But I have no friends. (I have very seldom have friends; they never stay for very long.)  Maybe I had friends until recently.  Sooner or later I become something they don't want.  Inconvenient corners, creases, peaks and valleys.  Inconsistencies.  Inconveniences.  Neglect (on my part; theirs).  I tell myself to keep my distance.  Not to get involved with more people.

But, then, what does it matter if I add to the body count of people encountered?  I don't know that I'm hurtful.  I only know that I'm hurtful.

I tell myself not to need approval.  To need approval, to be liked, to be loved, even, these things are childish.  They are human.  I am human.  I am human and that's okay I am human and that's okay....  Only there's nobody to tell me that.  Only the me in my head.  Sometimes I get an: "Oh, well.  Never mind, then.  Escapism.  That's what everyone else does.  Do it too."

I do of course I do how can I not be an escapist.  These things lose their significance, though.  They pass.  They pall.  They trickle away.

The head stuff is more like a snake that will someday eat me.  Is sapping me.  I wonder if it will win.