You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November 2007.

I keep missing the world. I’m in desperate need of comprehensive guide to the world of objects. I keep calling Thanksgiving “Halloween.” I have lost all sense of scope. I cannot discern the crucial from the inconsequential. While innocently browsing with my sister I came upon this title in the crafting section: Never Knit Your Man A Sweater (Unless You’ve Got A Ring).

I especially like this website’s synopsis of the problem. I paraphrase: We, ladies, are wasting our time making beautiful handicrafts for men only to be dumped and spurned, our projects discarded or worse– kept as a foolish tell, proof that we loved harder than the man. Instead of limiting myself to this commitment trajectory of stitches, I am going to have my lawyer draw up prenuptial agreements for everything I make. In the case of divorce: this sweater reverts back, this one is passed to a new lover, this one will be donated to pet-relief work in New Orleans. This seems much better than monitoring involvement as I go. I imagine issuing new promises to my lover– ensuring everyone always knows the temperature of the relationship: if we make it to the end of a coaster, I’ll consider making you a sock, if we’re still at it after a few goodnatured iPod cozies, I’ll consider a hat or a scarf. Then maybe it will be forever-sweater time.

Why not just knit all my loved ones into one, big, woolly sack? I can already see all your shrinking, darkened faces looking up at me as I stitch you shut.

I still can’t hear you clearly. And am as distracted by messes as I was before. Too bad I’m such a messy person.

During her visit my sister revealed a new psychological disorder. Marked by disturbance at the sight of uneven blinds– it is different from mere anality, more localized. “I hate when they’re a little off like that!” she told me, getting up to fix them. “Isn’t that kind of obsession a sign of autism?” Sister misunderstands, “Offism?” Indeed.

* Intentionally(?) off-putting sign on my shrink’s waste basket. My concern is first that people are trying to flush th’s and nd’s, thi’s and tha’s instead of tampons. I flush tampons anyway.


Last Thursday the sky turned white while I was in class. Not opaque white, and not milky but like some electrical discharge. “Don’t come visit me at work,” Mary Carradine said, it’s supposed to pour.

And it did, in a way. I sat outside the bus shelter waiting to feel raindrops but was, instead, drenched in an explosive moment as the white shattered into applause leaving only gray.

I’m having a love affair with Massachusetts. I know you wanted to leave. You all wanted to leave and it’s always been enough for me to come back with wet feet. When I say that I feel weirdly like some frail Alcott sister, withering over her keyboard. Mary asked me and I told that I wished it could be overcast six days a week– the seventh day could be sunny as a gift to everyone depressed by the weather: don’t saying I’m not generous.

On the seventh day I’ll go underground.

Because I care about you I will brave the frightening electronic turnstiles– so frenetic and cavalier in their swishing that I can still only bring myself to approach the closed ones when exiting. I distrust the motion sensors to keep the path clear for me and expect to be sliced in half by the transparent plates as if I’m an absurd component of a television knife-demonstration. I will die casually while the turnstile slices through a screen and then a new leather shoe with practically no damage to the blade


(oblivious to their audiencelessness.)

The best thing about my doctor is that she doesn’t want to stop the auras. “We can treat the headaches without getting rid of them now,” she assures me using now as opposed to before. “I’ve heard that you know a lot more about vascular headaches now than you did when I was diagnosed.” We have. We have. I don’t have the heart to tell her that my peripheral experiences are not limited to auras. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it might be another psychosis.

And then there’s the matter of hearing things:

You’re saying things to me and I’m not listening because they don’t sound like themselves. They sound like other phenomena, thinly disguised as words. As a patient I wonder if I should report or suppress them. As a writer I wonder if I could catalog the encoded phrases for later use in evoking scenes with purest linguistic sleight of hand.

I love you (January, despite a distance): Something felty born into the corner and coming forward to watch us lie still afterwards, licked by a rough tongue but motherless.

..last song I played for my mother
(November, unexpectedly): Wooden chair legs scraping against a wooden floor until the back hits a soft white wall. (And I began to cry.)

She thinks calling you [xxx] is too intimate
(November/October, causing the collapse of months): Grapes deserted and sandy wherever they’ve broken.

Meanwhile other scenes go on. In other halls “apricot” still means “kissed by the sun” and “mercy…” What does mercy mean, again?

“I put you in a short story.”
“Really?” Once in a while Gina brought treats to her shrink because they made her so visibly delighted.
“Sure. Hey, you’re almost as excited as you get about dreams. You called me suggestible.” Gina didn’t give her therapist time to answer because she wanted to distract her with the rest of the story, more to test out the plot than create a diversion from what it might mean to self-diagnose as clinically suggestible.
“It was about how this woman takes up astrology as a kitschy hobby because it seems like a good organizational scheme. She gets home from her lover’s house and reads her horoscope online without checking the date and it tells her she’s feeling creative so she writes a thousand words. Then she refreshes her email and there’s another horoscope there and it tells her it’s a good day to clean up her personal space so she scrubs out the bathroom and soaks her blinds. And then she refreshes it again, and this time checks the date because, after all she’s received a three in one day. The last one tells her she’s feeling impulsive so she gets her nipples pierced.” Gina’s therapist had been smiling since “soak her blinds” and Gina wondered if she had inadvertently made a sexual entendre.
“I decided to put in the whole cleaning thing because I did just do those things and it seemed a waste that no one would notice. But anyway, then she goes to therapy and tells her shrink about everything and her shrink tells her she sounds less impulsive and more suggestible.”
“Are you trying to convince yourself that your anxiety is waning?”
“Oh,” Gina paused, she liked her therapist because she was smart, especially in the last seven minutes of a fifty minute hour. And because she was still analytic enough to blame the revelatory grand finale on Gina, “I don’t know.”
“How’s your hand? Are you going to be alright this weekend?” She looked directly at Gina’s burned and bandaged hand which Gina had dramatically overwrapped for her session but was still blistered beyond dexterity two weeks after the accident.
“Sure, Jill’s staying with me,” she lied and immediately began hoping that it wouldn’t, somehow, become the truth…

<the rest is in my pocket with all the topless ordinaces you could ever dream about>

Dear fakeHipster-friends,

This year for the winter holidays I will be buying you all P.L.O. scarves! I know most of you already accessorize with them but one can never have too many cheap and mindlessly trendy political apparel, right?

In case you’re new to the Urban-Outfitters-Just-Puked-On-Me look and need something to make the outfit seem more plausible just let me know. I picked up a couple of Che shirts at the GAP and now have nowhere to put them.

Seasons’ tidings,


I should be thanking you. All of you. You make me a happy blagger.

You see, when you stumble upon my blag by keyword searching through Google WordPress kicks back the term you used. Then I read them and sometimes nurture deep, romantic, cyber attachments to you. Except when I’m mocking you mercilessly.

Sometimes I notice disturbing trends… like when for three weeks people were finding my page by searching for derivatives of “how to BLOW SKIRTS UPP” or “video of skirts blown up.” I know you are just after a panty-shot but I was wondering if you could rephrase the search to make it a little less violent. How about, perhaps, “I am a voyeur, skirts in wind” or “I think this doesn’t count as pornographic, women surprised by wind.” In either case, I’m sure you didn’t find what you were looking for here. I don’t have a video or a how-to or, even, a how-to-video. But my friends Scout and Susannah learned to swing dance on youtube so you might look into that.

Sometimes I notice you’re trying to figure out what my blag title means by searching such inconspicuous phrases as “what does femmephane mean.” It’s a good question and I go into that in my FAQ post which you might want to Google while you’re at it.

Best of all are those of you who come to my blag in really innocent ways that leave me with new completely unprecedented questions. Yesterday it was “santa cruz county topless ordinace.” Leading me to wonder 1. what is the Santa Cruz topless ordinance and what rumors might this person be trying get to the bottom of and 2. how deep into the search must one person browse in order to find my blag (a: 4 pages) and 3. Google has an auto-spelling correct function that gives you the option of linking to the right spelling of the word— why go 4 pages into the search instead of correcting it right away?

Runners recent up include: fake cat allergies, psychosomatic cat allergies, bloc 11, babyfeelings1, and anxiety symptoms.*

11.16.2007 Update new search term: PUT HER * THE STURRIPS.  11.18.2008: cure for the middle child syndrome

*Perceived correlations are, I swear, coincidental.

I spent 30 hours of my week (and god only knows how many of yours!) writing this silly page.

//But on the plus side, I figured out how to write script flirtatiously.

An excerpt from my 7th grade diary:


Dear Diary,

Today was Friday. The week was so long it seemed like three weeks.

On Sunday I am acolyting and then going to the symphony in Denver. A soloist cellist will be there and we don’t have to pay because we will be ushering. We have a four-day weekend. I do at least. Jessica and Cody have a three day weekend.

I got a C on my math mid-term and I’m so happy about it, I thought I failed.

I wore a dress today, too.

Yesterday we did a string quartet for the open house. I was so angry when Em and Emily just left. Mr. Jewell and Ms. Fiori played with us. Ms. Fiori was so GOOD!

I babysat for them  [wonders now: who?] today. They were so mean to me. And it was not fun.

Kelly drinks! Adam told us and I believe him, too.

Anyway on to more important things. I can’t believe Jessica will be in 6th grade next year. There to tarnish the sparkling reputation f the Novacks. Lots of my old teachers already call her Novack. She already got Allen in trouble and Russel. What a year it will be!.

2nd semester starts Wednesday. I hope I don’t get Snowden. I am so afraid of him. But, of course, no one knows that.

I was going through an old diary when I liked Hotani last year, about how he got mad at me [sic]. He looks a lot better with his hair cut.

It is 11:30, I’d better go to bed so I can wake up early.

Until Tomorrow,


“…–but you, disturbed by faint clapping sounds of praise and laughter, and I, resenting compromise and right and wrong on human lips, trust only in solitude and the violence of death and thus are divided.”

-Rhoda The Waves

It’s been weeks and, believe me, I’ve barely stopped to tie my boot.

Time passes and passes and “[the] infernal beings in those lands are constantly subject to inauspicious colouring, poor metabolism, ugly bodies, horrible experiences and awful shapes, all of which multiply their miseries.”

I have become flooded and unrecognizable. The extant recognition now being programmatically nipped in bud by strangers and siblings.

My nicknames are being slowly encroached upon by people who are mad at me, by people who aren’t mad at me but have other things at stake. And new nicknames are cropping up from unapproved sources or for unapproved reasons.

That and– I’ve spent 9 days now, emailing the dean every single day, trying to get a grade moved from someone else’s transcript onto mine. How fitting that they would put my grade for an independent study on freakishness, monstrosity, and memoir onto someone else’s transcript. After five years of work with the same administrators day after day, they cannot remember my name, cannot remember I need their help to fix the mistake, and consequently cannot help but prevent me from involving myself in the next officious University. So much for confessing in service to something hegemonically corrupt but specially efficient.

I repeat myself over and over. I am periodically acknowledged– which is even more confusing. I feel like I’m trying to shout to people on the beach with my head well underwater.

This has been a shudder and leak-filled week. Yesterday, while diligently at work on my midterm papers, I periodically fell into dampness, tears pouring down my cheeks. There was no sobbing, just a little too much straightforward moisture for a cafe.

Last week I dreamt of a lesion 3 inches in diameter below my right breast. It was 1 inch raised, soft and discolored like an elephantine burn. I thought it was a grave illness but then my mother said there was piece of glass in my side. Of course! A piece of glass! An infection. She removed the triangular shard with her fingers like she would a splinter and the fluid drained onto my clothing. I sopped it up and she closed the wound with safety pins.

Forgive the water from my side.

As illustration I offer the uncannily apt: mbc in very large chair

(mbc in very large chair, reflected. San Diego.)