Looking Like A Little Ghost

Back in NYC. Flew the red-eye. I got so much stuff for x-mas. It's insane. I shopped like the world was about to end, which in fact it is. I got an H&M Gift card and went to the one in SF and found the very last size small Comme Des Garcons for H&M shirt. Fuck you.

Yesterday I came home, unpacked, slept, and met Tommy to go to the gym. Came home to silently eat and then met Grey for drinks. I watched Inside Bjork last night, it was like seeing a childhood friend again. Her music was really important to me when I was 12. Going home I always feel nostalgic, sad about my teenage self. I wish I could have gone back and given Teen Me some advice. I would have said "Get out of here and go to New York." Which would have been the right advice.

Yeah so I found my teenage journals, and I'm gonna start posting them here, I think. The good ones anyway. There are whole chunks of my life that I worked very hard to forget. I remember when my friend Brian dated this guy Davey that I had a crush on. I was so jealous, I was livid. I asked Cotton, our mutual friend, to never mention it to me. And then I forgot about it. It worked! Also I (apparently) used to drink a lot, and think a lot. I want to post an entry about goint to see Gravy Train!!!! at a house show in Oakland and drinking beers with them and making fun of them for being old. Old, at the time, being 20. That same night, East Bay scenester Coomers felt me up. I remember being really amazed by this. It was a piece of my sexual awakening, maybe. You know that scene in Their Eyes Were Watching God where Janey is sitting underneath the peach tree and it's quivering and it represents the World of Sex? It was like that, for me. Do the people that read my blog know about Zora Neale Hurston? Who even reads this thing anyways? The other half of my sexual awakening happened in April or May of 2005 when guy cruised me on the subway, casting me into being. All of a sudden: I have a body that you can see. This is a big revelation for queers. Some of us never have it. Some of us can't stop having it. To think.

Spending the morning on hold forever with the company managing my student loans. I can't pay them, I have to reorganize this. As time passes, I am increasingly certain that unless I win the lottery, sign a gigantic record deal / TV contract / book deal, or marry very rich, I will just never be able to pay this shit off.

This song and video is really beautiful, and maybe my favorite Garbage song ever. It makes me miss my own auburn-haired UK powerhouse girl power icon, La JJ:


And She Will

I went straight to Chinatown, to both Chinatowns, and you know what I was looking for. You know I found it. Couldn't make it to the beach but I've still got some tan lines. Honey I keep notes like Courtney Love. I found my childhood diaries. Diaries from when I was 16. My notes for my trip back to New York (that's where I live right now) says "EDAMAME." About her body she's taking notes.

Barely got any work done on my show, but did everything else on my to-do list. I'm coming back into town tonight. I'm leaving tonight, actually, I'll get back tomorrow morning at 6am. Do you want to have coffee with me?
So, I didn't get anything done except: relaxing. I feel like resting is a lot more important than other things, like prioritizing. California feels so weird to me. Everything is so low to the ground. The sky is gigantic out here it's like a blanket thrown over you. But I live on an island out here. Anyways. Politics of pleasure and relaxation. And healing. And resting. And turning on and dropping out. And the politics of she goes on vacation because she cannot deal with her life. this time not drugs, this time she goes on a real vacation. And you know she is not dressing up okay? She is not trying to impress anybody she just wants to relax before she gets back to work to kick your ass. And she just might.


Trying to Make Some Girl

Dreamed last night of eating meat. My friends were horrified so I spit it out, but honestly I didn't mind so much. Woke up with a stomach ache.

To clarify:

My sexual position is tomcat.

My sexual position is PJ Harvey performing "Satisfaction" with
Björk at the 1994 Brit Awards.


Hey Boy

God I love Brontez. I just bought his record.

He's like Elvis. I just start screaming.


Day Off

I'm flying home to California tomorrow. I'm excited to have a vacation, at last. When I get back, I'm going to be very busy. I'm working on a lot of things, it's pretty exciting.

I once read an interview with Martha Stewart, wherein she served the reporter lunch, and when the reporter asked about the recipe (Chinese-style stir-friend steak), Martha recited it from memory. Then said "You know, that's why people hate me."

I feel like I'm always on the verge of reciting a recipe. But I'm scared to because then I think people will resent me. But you know what? People already resent me and I haven't even recited the recipe so if I'm gonna get shade thrown at me by haters then I may as well LIVE. IT. UP. right?

This is all to say that I wanted to recite the following recipe. In addition to the things you read about here on my blog, or things I tell you about, one of the things I do is write monthly horoscopes, under a pseudonym. I'm going to share with you now the horoscope I wrote for myself:

"January finds Leos getting back on track. Financials organized, health regimen reinstated, new hairdo. Leos love to prioritize themselves, and this is the perfect month to do so. How else can you cope with the demands of your adoring public if you haven’t attended to your own needs first? Once you give yourself the attention you deserve, you’ll soon find everyone else following suit."

Whatever. That's why people hate me. Some people, I mean. Most people (e.g. my friends) don't mind. Anyways.

I wanted to draw everyone's attention to this movie that Stuart Sanford made.

It's on his blog. It's called: 24 Hour Day Off. I've spoken at length about my feelings for Ferris Bueller. That film illustrates a lot of what about our contemporary culture pisses me off. The golden-boy worship thing. The crucifixion of the older sister. I have often said that the only useful part of that movie is the shower scene.

Stuart Sanford extends this moment, elongating it past the point of pleasure. He shows us leisure stretched into a grotesque caricature. Pleasure and relaxation stretch into torpor and anxiousness. Stuart Sanford's art makes a genius of history. Look: gays / fags / queers / disenfranchised youth / people who do not have the leisure and socially-scripted charisma of Ferris Bueller have always had to construct our own realities. We have to locate our signs of pleasure and transactions of self within another culture's frame. Stuart Sanford makes this location, the cartography of the Faggot, a glorious conceit. Stuart's boys are endlessly cumming, are caught in petrified euphemism, their glorious secret smiles are given back to us, forever.


Hollywood Life Didion Life

Spent yesterday home sick from work. Had a cough so bad I got dizzy. It was also the first snow day. I drank black cherry bark tea and watched the movie "Friday". I ordered vegan japanese food and made hot cocoa with soy-milk. Spent the afternoon flirting with the guy I like in e-mail, talking about how come you never wanna take me out? You know so much about Dusty Springfield you oughta quiz me. Dear Everyone: there's no quicker way to a Leo's heart, even when he's home sick eating anti-anxiety pills and staring out a snowy window, there is no quicker way to that fiery passionate center of romance than to tell the Leo that you're jealous.

Making a list of turn-ons and turn-offs and luckily more things turn me on than turn me off. I still don't feel like sharing the list yet, but suffice it to say that in my book, turn-offs include name-dropping. That's a good clue for you if you're trying to impress me (which you should probably be doing). That all being said, I learned about drinking black cherry bark tea from two sources: the writings of Gloria Naylor (it is, in fact, a voodoo remedy) and one-on-one advice with Lady Miss Kier (it is, in fact, a voodoo remedy).

Suck it, winter.


The Light Fantastic

Sipping cough syrup at my desk. I've cleaned my room and I'm making stacks of all of my books. I'm counting things like I'm pretending to organize them, but I'm also making plans to throw things out.

This is the proof of my empathy, the indication of just how intuitive my style of love-making is.
Deft and sure and sleight of heart I am showing you (not telling you) that like characters in an opera I can with a single motion accomplish dual goals: I catalog and I kill. To measure something is to change it. So I am counting your qualities as I am saying goodbye.

This photo is from a project that Stuart Sanford did, and I am as always totally excited and happy to have been involved with and know him in any capacity. So you should check it out. Thinking Grace Jones. I mean, as usual.

Friday night I had the release party for Graphic Glory, which was great. Ran over to my office party, which was also fun, but too much. Spent Saturday sleeping. Went to the Birdsong reading, then a few bars, then Dan's party, then the Metropolitan, where I ran into my long lost and much-admired friend Alex Da Corte. That was great. Sunday Tommy made me go see Let The Right One In, since he loves horror movies. I actually thought this one was really sweet. We watched cartoons at my house and I fell asleep early.

I'm going home to California next week, and I'm excited to be mostly alone. I want to go shopping and eat Thai food and dig through crates of records at Amoeba and buy cheap bad cigarettes and breathe some fog for a while, you know?

I told a friend the other day that I felt lonely. That's not entirely true. I feel bored, I guess, by dudes. Do you know the feeling when you are watching television and you've watched the commercials and the opening credits and sung along to the theme music and the actors get out on the set and start making all these stupid jokes and then you realize that you've seen this episode before? This is how I feel, with regards to my love life. Why not just stop watching tv? I am working on some interesting new art projects and I think I've had more than enough sex to give me things to write about.

And I'm reading Ariel Schrag comic books and thinking about you and the thing that opens up in my mind every time I remember you is like a black hole, not even light can escape I find a well I cannot peer down into no matter how thirsty it makes me.

I remember you picking me up for our first date when I was 17 and you were 19 (I'm pretty sure). You met me at the mall in Oakland Chinatown and I took you to this crazy candy store that I loved. I got a watermelon slushie which still had the black pits. We sat at the fountain in the center of the minimall and I spat the seeds into the water. You told me about how growing up, you and your brother spent the summer getting stoned and eating lime popsicles and playing nintendo. You drove me to a minigolf course and while I aimed between the arms of a fiberglass windmill you stood behind me telling me that I had no reason to be ashamed of my body. Sburban families gawking at your buzzed hair, piercings and tattoos, they watched you come up behind me and put your arms around my waist. How could they have known that without that I wouldn't have known where my hips really were? Similarly how could I have ever predicted that a few years later I'd be tracing the shape of imaginary hands and keeping you on top of a list of MY FRIENDS WHO ARE DEAD, picturing and remembering the weight of you on top of me and how you sounded plaintive, insistent and expectant you on top of me on the floor of your apartment on 14th street the first time I ever went to Manhattan in the summer of 2002.


Goobye Icon

I only blog celebrity obituaries.

Cleaned Ashtrays

I'm gonna write my next play on an airplane after I eat some pills. I just have too many ideas to type out down here. Gotta wait until I reach cruising altitude. I'll wave to you but you'll just be a dot, lover.



--Danielle Rosa

Feeling it.

We went through Hell just to get to Hell


I don't know how Janet Weiss and Sam Coomes met. I know that she didn't learn to play the drums until she was 22, which has always been a particularly inspirational bit of knowledge to me. So after college Janet moved from San Francisco and started playing music with Sam Coomes. And they started this band, called Motorgoat. The third person in the band eventually dropped out and moved away, leaving Janet and Sam. And they fell in love. They made recordings for years in their basement. They released a cassette of experimental recordings made on obsolete keyboards that kept breaking. They worked awful day jobs, Sam Coomes worked at Kinkos for three years while playing music in his basement at night, with the woman he loved. They put out comp tracks and played back-up for Elliot Smith. They got married.

(And doesn't that sound great? It's a real kind of fantasy for a certain type of west coast Americans. For me in high school, it was the description of a dream. Being in love, having a career as an experimental indie musician. Pacific Northwest, man. That sounds great doesn't it?)

Then they divorced each other, and kept the band going. They released R&B Transmogrification, a gorgeous, fuzzy kind of indie-pop record ABOUT THEIR RELATIONSHIP ENDING. It is some of the most beautiful, aching music I have heard. I remember buying it because it came as a bonus when you purchased the LP of their following album, Featuring "Birds", which is maybe my favorite record of theirs. On both albums, there's a kind of musique verité happening. Sam and Janet are writing songs ostensibly about one another. How awful is that? To know that your ex is writing songs about you, but then you're also in the band where they write the songs, and then you PLAY ON THEM. Their stage shows are known for utter chaos and palpable onstage tension. She gleefully drums along, kinetic genius that she is, while he sings "Flesh wound heal, broken bones mend / You're not my friend / I never want to see you again." He helps arrange a mod-ish Janet-penned ditty titled "Tomorrow You'll Hide". He compares her in one song to a chocolate rabbit (sweet, cheap and hollow, natch). This is the sound of an actual break up. This is how wonderful it can sound to stay with something painful and bad. They've released a bunch of records since then, all of which are excellent. In high school I saw them perform and they fought continuously onstage. Sam started to play a song on the guitar with Janet, then announced that it wasn't working, the guitar was fucked, and he wanted to skip it. She argued with him, through the microphone, and urged him to just tune the guitar and play the song. He refused. Try it again. He refused. She played the drum part from the song anyway. He hurled the guitar just past her head, at the brick wall behind her. They moved onto the next song. She mocked him in front of their fans. I was in heaven.

I saw Janet on the street in NYC a few weeks ago. She's maybe my favorite (former) member of Sleater-Kinney because she seems the most down to earth. My friend Cotton does a really good impression of her, which is also an impression of Molly Shannon's character Salley O'Malley on SNL, in which he pictures Janet as continually announcing "I'm 50!"

Tell Me That You Wanna Bore Me

In the dream I watch a girl on roller skates riding down the street. I am also the girl on the roller skates, or I know / recognize her. She skates down the street to where a man is lying on the ground. He is unconscious and is having some kind of a seizure, he's shaking all over. He is wearing dark sunglasses and dirty clothes, he looks blind, like a homeless person. She kneels beside him.

In the dream I become aware that the man is hearing something. The girl is working with some kind of program that exposes "undesirable" people to this weird sound. She administers the sound to the people via headphones, and she also collects them once they have heard the sound. Once someone has listened to the sound, their brains become scrambled, they have no identity thoughts or feelings. It's some kind of mind control program and I notice that the girl's skates are pink and that she has a matching minibackpack. In the dream I am terrified of hearing this phantom mind-controlling sound. In teh dream I have a secret fear that I know the sound, that I recognize the sound and have just been trying to ignore it. I realize that by admitting it, I know I've exposed myself to it, and that it's too late. I imagine that the sound is like white noise made up of every human voice saying very concievable thing. It sounds murky and hissing. I wake up at noon in a cold sweat with daylight streaming into my room, to the sound of the gurgling of my humidifier.

House Intrusion

(From Lover, Ferocious. Billy Cheer and Scott Panther at Scott's apartment.)

Scott: I heard them last night.

Billy: What?

Scott: Rats.

Billy: You don't have any rats in your house.

Scott: Billy I heard them running around in the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Billy: I think rats are cute.

Scott: Why do you have to think they're cute? They're not living at your house. They scare me.

Billy: I used to have a pet rat, it died of cancer. They're really nice. They're very intelligent.

Scott: I don't know why you think this is so funny, Billy. I have rats. Your boyfriend, who cares about you so, so much, is really upset about something and you keep making jokes. That's just great.

Billy: I'm sorry.... I care about you too, Scott.

Scott (examining a minuscule pimple or something on his arm): I think one bit me. I think it came into my room while I was asleep and I think it bit me.

Billy: That doesn't look like a bite.

Scott: What if I got rat AIDS?

Billy: I don't think you don't have rat AIDS. I wouldn't worry about that.

Scott: Well, you should be worried. You're exactly who should be worried, because if I get rat AIDS you're going to be the first person I give it to.

Billy: That's fine, I'm immune to rat AIDS anyway.


from LOVER, FEROCIOUS (Dixon Place 2/24/09)


Animal Rhapsody 12" Remix Version

Look, I did this portrait using the internet:

It's you, having completely BLOWN-IT.

Next, please.


Bitches I've Been

Hello again, lover.


I am thrilled more than I can possibly say to share with you that East Village Boys has posted another of my stories from Scorcher. It's maybe my favorite thing that I've ever written. Todd has done incredibly illustrations and I am so, so proud.

Chodron Advice

"The difference between theism and nontheism is not whether one does or does not believe in God. It is an issue that applies to everyone, including Buddhists and non-Buddhists. Theism is a deep-seated conviction that there's some hand to hold: if we just do the right things, someone will appreciate us and take care of us. It means thinking there's always going to be a babysitter available when we need one. We are inclined to abdicate our responsibilities and delegate our authority to something outside ourselves. Nontheism is relaxing with the ambiguity and uncertainty of the present moment without reaching for anything to protect ourselves.

Nontheism is finally realizing that there's no babysitter that you can count on. You just get a good one and he or she is gone. Nontheism is realizing that it's not just the babysitters that come and go. The whole of life is like that. This is the truth, and the truth is inconvenient.

Hope and fear come from feeling that we lack something; they come from a sense of poverty. We can't simply relax with ourselves. We hold on to hope and hope robs us of the present moment. We feel that someone else knows what's going on, but that there's something missing in us, and therefor something is lacking in our world.

Rather than letting our negativity get the better of us, we could acknowledge that right now we feel like a piece of shit and not be squeamish about taking a good look. That's the compassionate thing to do. That's the brave thing to do. We could smell that piece of shit. We could feel it; what is its texture, color, and shape?

We can explore the nature of that piece of shit. We can know the nature of dislike, shame, and embarrassment not believe there's something wrong with that. We can drop the fundamental hope that there is a better "me" who one day will emerge. We can't just jump over ourselves as if we were not there. It's better to take a straight look at all our hopes and fears. Then some kind of confidence in our sanity arises."

-- Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart


The woman behind me at City Bakery is in a hurry, and is feeling private about the food she's just bought. She hands the cardboard box to the cashier.

"Hot food."
"And I need to put it on a card, all right?"
"Okay, fine." He puts the food on the scale. "Eggs?"
"Excuse me?"
"Did you get eggs?"
He pauses while he's typing on the weight. "Any bacon in there?"
The woman is caught off-guard. "Yeah..."
The cashier raises his eyebrow. "How many pieces?"
"I don't know."
"Like... one piece? Two pieces?" He starts to pick at the tape on the cardboard. "Three?"

When I got to work, one of the lawyers told me about a meeting he had. Someone was excited to make a movie, and brought in an investor they were particularly proud of. The client and the investor wanted to get started with the production counsel paperwork right away. The lawyer told them that unfortunately they had to sign a retainer letter for the before he could being working for them. Sort of like a deposit. The client turned to the investor, who waved his hand.

"Oh, I'm good for it. Just get started. Listen. All the cookies in the Northeast? I sell."

I thought that was pretty exciting.

Evaporate Together

This song always makes me happy. I've posted it before, I'm sure, but it's pretty important.

Other Rooms

Nightmare: I am in a strange San Francisco-style apartment. I'm here to move into a room. It's in the center of the apartment. My bed is a big futon frame. There's a Christmas tree here. It's the living room they're renting it out like it's another bedroom, because they all have different schedules. It's with two guys, and a girl. The girl I know, I used to go out with her room mate, we got along. They ask me to stay over one night, calling it a "home-stay" and I sleep in the futon. I wake up and everyone's at work and I am locked inside the apartment. I want to get out but for some reason my fear of offending them is preventing me from doing so. One of the boys comes home / comes out of his room (has he been home all along?). I ask him, angry, if this is really a bedroom they're renting out, because it looks a lot like the living room to me. It seems like I'm sleeping on the fold-out couch. The boy gets angry that I don't like it, and starts attacking me. I wake up.

Still interviewing room mates. Hopefully done.
Thank god.



So do you want to be the vengeful, spurned former lover or the passionate lover who actually gets to fuck? Do you want to be the beautiful object of affection or do you want to be the the poet who tells the world how petty it is?

Once, my friend Matt and I were talking about someone who had hurt him. A girl he thought had no redeeming qualities (though of course I will acknowledge now that every living being has redeeming qualities). He said "You know, she's the worst person in the world. There is no one worse that her." And following this line of thinking, said "The only thing worse that being her is being the person who wants to be her." Ouch. This has given me a lot to think about. Who do you want to be? Who do you wish you were? I think about this a lot. I ask myself this question often.

  • Laura Nyro, singing "When I Die"
  • My friend Chuck, who died but was gorgeous and free and precious and too sad to realize it
  • My friend Grey who dropped everything and moved to SF and pursued his dream or whatever and now he lives where dreams do. (Which is to say at night).
  • International Art Superstar La JohnJoseph
It's an exercise in experiencing love for these people. I can't be them but I can embody the things about them that I like. I also often fantasize about being any and all of my former lovers. Just to know what the fucking problem was, right? I often fantasize about being other people because I don't enjoy being me, really. Not all the time.

Thinking about this lately, and my friend's comment about the only thing sadder than being someone is wanting to be someone else. It's true, you rob yourself of a lot. You can totally undermine yourself by wishing you were somebody else. (Am I writing a Pink song? Wow.) A few weeks ago i was thinking about this in relation to feeling romantic.

I am doing newer artwork, I'm moving past my sphere of comfort. In the past, the point of a lot of my work was "Nice try, no one will ever like you once they see the real you." And that didn't work so well. Then, the point became "Ha Ha, you love me! You admitted it so you lose!" where I was the one doing the admitting.

Now my punchline is that people are desperate to connect with each other and love each other and then they do and the scary thing is that I admit it and the other person says "Yeah. And?"

Ok so anyways the phrase as a romance thing came to me recently: BRAG ABOUT ME

And it's winter, and I'm trying to make some things happen.

We Need New Heroines



Well Gosh

Wednesday after work I met up with my friend Kevin, who in the months I've known him has made quite a few jokes about blogging, but of course I soon come to discover has his own blog. We met up in the totally overcrowded Union Square Greenmarket to shop for Thanksgiving. Kevin helped me get my new favorite clothes, so if you see me looking especially fly, it's because of him. He was wearing the most beautiful blue leather jacket that I have ever seen. We retired to Kevin's new apartment in the East Village where he plied me with cognac and hummus and good bread. Wednesdays are good.

Thanksgiving I woke to an empty apartment, ate a really wonderful brunch and napped for most of the morning. Eventually met up with Richert and Jeanne in Park Slope. Jeanne is a food blogger but I'm such an asshole I forgot her new blog. Anyways. Her house is maybe the nicest apartment I've ever seen in NYC. And the food was all vegetarian and extravagant and amazing and I had pretty much a perfect Thanksgiving, actually. We drank spiked apple cider in Prospect Park and played croquet, for fuck's sake. Top that. I learned about the magickal midwestern delicacy known as Gifta.

Friday I had another wonderful day alone in the apartment. Cleaning, mostly, I guess. Met up with Tommy and Lauren at night for a "writing date" in which we breifly discussed writing then ate nachos and went on a bar crawl through the Village. Writers: who knew? Went home and puked all night. Woke at the crack of dawn, sick as a dog, to meet up with long-lost friends for a memorial service for my friend Spencer who died in October. I woke up feeling sick and gross and dangerous. As I got dressed (all black cotton turtleneck teased punk haircut tailored couture pants postmarxist Angela Y. Davis meets Ian Svenonius for the New American Obama Hope team REALNESS), I looked at myself in the mirror and all of a sudden got an incredible nosebleed. I decided "I'm still going to this thing." And I did. And the service was beautiful. And I've never been to a funeral before, not for someone that wasn't family. And it did, really, help me with my feelings about loss. Came home and had a 101-degree fever. Ordered vegan Japanese take-out, took some codeine and watched Slackers.

Woke up feeling fine, fine fine.

Sunday I wrote that story for teh German zine, about the first time we slept together on a pile of casio keyboards. Do you remember? You said "Well, now we can start a band". That was cute. It has some good points in it, I'll show it to you some time. Met up with Tommy, went shopping at Patricia Field and bought some good knives. Saw Synecdoche NY, went home and played Sega Genesis.

I don't have to convince nobody of nothing, honey.

cares about fashion



I just wrote this really stupid missive blog post about how frustrated I was, struggling with feelings of inadequacy and rejection. Anyways I deleted it because who wants to add more negativity, right?

Plus also I'm thinking about the people that upset me, and they deserve to feel good. It's hard but true: even people you totally cannot stand deserve to be happy or whatever. I'm a lot cooler, I'm letting it go.

The other point of the blog post which I have just deleted is to say how out of frustration and feeling bad all the time, I'm starting to feel like maybe if I just swing it the other way I could actually know another human person.

Oh fuck it i'll let the fact that I'm on the internet this morning cheer me up. Thanks!

Breaking It You Buying It


Sort of dopey


Is This A Comedy, or What?

Reflecting: Why doesn't anything feel good?

Gosh this is such a good record, though.

I'm writing a story to send to a zine in Germany. Who should I write it about?

Yo that song, ANONYMOUS, by Sleater-Kinney.
That's great, too.

I didn't even realize I did this as I was typing it. Whoa!

The Boy Is A Bird

Friday night I went to the opening for Ves Pitt's new exhibition at the Christopher Henry Gallery. The show featured larger than life size portraits of really gorgeous freaky performance folks. Dynasty Handbag, Pixie Harlots. An iconic image of La JohnJoseph sat directly across the room from a portrait of moi. Then ran over to the La Mama Gallery where I saw Matt, Marina, Alan, and Ginger at the Duck Soup opening.

Got home and met up with Jiddy and her fabulous entourage. We lounged around my apartment listening to (what else?) Grace Jones, drinking sake and smoking, picking out outfits. Once we had settled all the details (dance moves, outfit changes, directions) we all hopped in a car to GlassLands Gallery for our performance at the Secret Faggot Party. The show was so much fun! The other acts were really great, especially House of Ladosha. We got some positive feedback and saw lots of gorgeous freaky queers, new friends and old. Met my penpal / new best friend Daniel, he got groovy with Hunter and Jiddy and I in an alleyway. Jiddy wore her party outfit (lace stockings and acid-washed denim short-shorts, honey) even though it was fucking arctic. Drank two glasses of white wine and found myself drunk. Ran into an old friend whom I thought I'd had a falling out with. Turns out to have been a big misunderstanding and now we're friends again. Don't you just love when that happens? Left the show in an amorous hurry. Forgot to ask for my payment. Showbiz!

Saturday woke up early to a celestial hangover. Made breakfast of toast avocado and sausage (it's important that you know that I eat enough Omega-3 fatty acids, I want you know that my brain is functioning). Hustled over to the Tim Hamilton sample sale, where I got some really nice clothes. I decided I don't want to talk about clothes any more right now. Anyways, I look cute. Came home to meet potential room mates, though no real leads just yet. Bobo and I watched most of Wall-E. The hype is real, I admit it.

Slept, ate, debated, and then decided to go out Saturday night. Drank Long Island Iced Teas danced a very little bit. Listened to girl rock, very loud, and very late. You know that genre Foxcore? Sort of like that, I guess. The phrase "secretly butch" is of import, I think.

Sunday we got a couch and a living room coffee table. I am trying to focus on the positive. There're some things to think about, I guess. Still looking for a room mate. Worried

I've got some things I'd like to talk about. Some experiences I'd like to use as ideas. For the zine, y'know. For some song I'm working on, for this new piece I've been thinking about. Really, I talk like I have this creative life in my head because when I see other people do it, it seems appealing. What's the word? Pose. In California when I was in high school (I was a punk rocker, a riot boi) being a poseur was the worst thing you could be. Now in New York, posing is considered quite successful. That's all good and fine, I guess. I live on a grid, so do you.

This could feel good.


What's New?

When I was in the sixth grade I was best friends with this girl and we both had crushes on the metal dudes at our school. This was in my California suburb in the mid-1990s. These guys were in a band, I don't remember what they were called but it was like Anthrax-- the name of a chemical. One of the guys in the band, Tim, had a huge crush on my best friend and everyone knew it including her, but she just wasn't into it. I, however, was totally into the guy but I didn't know it at the time. Actually now that I'm thinking about it he wasn't actually in the band but he hung out with them. Tim and I would walk home from school together and he would tell me how much he loved my best friend all the time. I just wanted to go over to his house so we could watch music videos. He and his friends had hours of MTV2 on VHS (the bitch is real). These are the kids that would discover pot first. Once, even though I had been sworn to secrecy, I told Tim a salacious story about my best friend.

At my best friend's house recently, she had another girlfriend over for a slumber party. For some reason, maybe her parents knew about it, Tim and his best friend Mark, who played bass in the band came over late at night to hang out. There was some pretext of a sober virginal double date or something. But we weren't even kissing yet, really. Really young. At some point my best friend and Mark were the only ones up, the other two kids having fallen asleep and been rejected by the respective objects of their desires. My best friend was watching a movie sitting next to Mark and slyly, without making eye contact, sort of masturbated him, over his underpants and (obviously cargo) shorts with her foot, while she was wearing a sock. He didn't cum. Or, she couldn't tell and she didn't ask told me "Cum isn't the point Max, the point is you that can never tell anyone about this, especially not Tim. You're the only one who knows."

I think I made it something like 20 hours from the time she told me until I told Tim while we were walking home from school together. He started crying and told me that it broke his heart. I didn't tell him because I wanted him to be sad or not like my best friend, I told him because I thought that if he saw that I was on his side and told him things even things I wasn't supposed to, that he would like me. My best friend found out in something like 15 minutes and called me to curtly say "You can't keep your mouth shut, so I'm never speaking to you again." And I was totally devastated. The next morning she came up to me in drama class, in full damage control mode, and said "Ok. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to act like you didn't tell anyone and we're just going to act like this whole thing never happened, okay?"

Everything as fine after that. She bought a copy of Switchblade Symphony's cd-single for "Drool" and I was so jealous cause I couldn't find it anywhere and she got it at fucking Hot Topic and I was livid that she had it and I couldn't have it. And somehow she knew that i wanted it and gave to me. And I still have it and I still listen to it all the time.


Buckets / Drops

Ever since my stomach got better (but it wasn't just my stomach, all of my tubes all over my body including blood tubes-- veins), I've been starving. Ravenous. Eating extra meals every day to make up for lost time. I liked that, for about a week you could almost see one of my abdominal muscles, but fuck that. I'm hungry.

On that note:

So expensive. So worth it.

Fuck, man. If this is the only good thing that happens to me all weekend I'm fine with that.


l'homme que j'aime

Today I feel much better. I don't know what else to say about that other than I hope it sticks. I so rarely get sick, but when I do it's pretty bad. I'm feeling basically 100% better. Like magick. Thanks to acupuncture and moxibustion, I guess. Witchery.

My horoscopes are highlighting a) change and b) my libido. Both welcome distractions from the last few weeks. I have been Completely Fucking Miserable. My dad is in the hospital, but it's not very serious. Just worrying. Feel like I'm in a den of vipers! Feel sharp things all around me. I am being very conscious to avoid things that look painful. So much energy and concentration, on choosing the lesser of two evils. Okay. Jenny is still leaving, Jaime is still leaving after her. Incredible difficulty with managing stress. Have so much to work on. Whichever ends soonest: that's the one I want.

I got a copy of Dec/Jan Interview magazine, which I am in. (Stay tuned, I plan on making the biggest most obnoxious deal about it when it hits newsstands 12/2). Also, found out that the interview I did for AXM Magazine is now online. You can see it here.The photo is from my little interview. Stuart Sanford took the picture and I think he is just so fabulous and sweet and nice and funny. His pictures are great. As La JJ says (another of the wonderful ginger-haired faggots in my life, the original in fact): "His art is very much in the style of now, isn't it?" I agree.

Tomorrow night, after going to Ves Pitts' opening at the
Christopher Henry Gallery because he is another amazing photographer I am lucky enough to know and a photo of me is in the exhibition), I am going to perform at this amazing party in Brooklyn. Please come.

I would like for some distractions to happen. I like the idea of having to PREPARE OURSELVES to be happy. I am certainly out of shape and out of practice. Since my stomach is now cooperating with me, I have been ravenous. It's like I am learning to eat all over again. And I sort of am learning, I have new systems in place. This is a productive and apt metaphor for the feeling I'm having. It's close to optimism, but with the caveat that we don't know things will get better. I'm such a downer. What I want to say is: I'm paying attention, or trying to. I'm working very very hard and though I have nothing to show for it and may never get well and never get rich and never get out of debt or famous, would you like to go grab a drink some time?

Here is a nice video of a pretty song that accurately sums up what I'm going for, girls:


The thing that has always bugged me about Star Wars and Star Trek and all these intergalactic war-slash-adventure movies is that in outer space, y'know, there's no sound. These explosions and rockets don't make any noise out there.

I feel like I'm riding in an ambulance in outer space. Futile cause it's quiet. None of the traffic gets out of my way. I don't even know where the space-hospital is.

It blows my mind, people on the street. Holding hands. Saw a guy in sweatpants this morning with a puppy tucked into his sweatshirt, drinking Starbucks and wearing flip flops. Who are these people that have so much leisure time? I want desperately to be so idle. To spend my mornings doing what I feel like.

Every morning for the last two weeks I wake up and ask myself how sick I feel and that really fucking sucks.
holding pattern. no blood, no emergency room. "mother mother" bonham. i need a new watch, something with a television in it so i'll have something to look at to make me want to pass the time.

still need room mates, still don't have the time to meet anybody. okay.

okay. okay.


anthems for invisible countries that don't exist.

i'm singin em.


Hello girls.

I should maybe say hello ghouls. We're in a graveyard, I realize. I'm in the back of a butcher shop, this is where I'm hiding. Count ONE MISSISSIPPI TWO MISSISSIPPI THREE MISSISSIPPI FOUR, come find me.

On the train yesterday morning on the way to my modeling gig a homeless man sat next to me and started screaming at me threats and scary things. I wrote in my notebook COME GET ME. Now I feel like I'm playing that game? Sardines? Hide & Seek? I used to play that with my neighbors when my family lived in Los Angeles. Those were the days. When I was 8. I feel like I'm hiding but I'm the only one playing.


We're in a graveyard.

Literally nothing is going right. I cannot control how I feel or what I do or what I think or even what I'm alllowed to put in my body. I am most definitely NOT feeling better, still sick. Maybe forever. This is what it's like now.

Any conversation I have with anyone involves something going very wrong. There are too many things to count and I am very scared. Welcome to the Jungle. What's the word THE GREEK WORD (so many Greek words! I should get a new book I should travel and learn a new language huh?) for when you see a murder and then you are complicit in the murder? MIASMA? I feel like I am complicit because I am watching horrible things happen. And then I share them with you all on this neat little blog. Gawd remember LIVEJOURNAL? Or DIARYLAND? Now THOSE were the days, if you ask me. No one ever asks me. Alright!

When will it be enough, I wonder? What's my cue?

I guess the rule of thumb is WAIT FOR BLOOD.

For what it's worth I don't think we'll have to wait very long, girls. Let's get this show on the road!



And I'll show you a TV that you can't turn off. There are no commercials it's one long music video with a laugh track and everything is in black and white. (I mean gray). Video of trains crashing in such slow motion that it goes on forever. Permanent glass shattering more. Oh y'know I'm easy you wouldn't even have to tape my eyes open tie me down to make me watch it I would LOVE for it to go down like that I would volunteer to go in front of television tubes like that. I want something I can plug into and just forget, honey.

There are too many colors here. There's too much noise here too many singers and too much news too many details. I'm counting fingernails on infants I'm counting boxes of nails. Let's clip one and hammer another. Yeah yeah I said I wanted wild I know I begged the jungle to be nice to me and I got eaten and I got sick and I won't stop so get me out of here get me to drier higher ground. I feel scales growing on me I smell smoke I see birds escaping we don't have to agree but I know that all things finite flammable and gorgeous are not worth fighting over. Say hi to me on the street. Check underneath me see if I'm leaking. Rotate. Burn. And all for some tiny compliment, some wrist. Look at where your hands are you think you're writing something you fucking creep look at your hands you're not doing anything ain't got no strings to hold me up. Thinks he's cute.

I'm half crazy (guess which half) with desperation for you, still, like a tidal wave inside a thimble it doesn't mean anything it means heavy hard small and it hurts. An imaginary gravity I'm being pulled but you can't see it right? Like I make it up right? Like I don't have to keep falling. I'm half crazy with desperation for some dumb old orbit the same every day since I was 15 or 16 or 17 the same green blue gray eyes it won't stop. Like my chest is full of overripe fruit I want to get firmer greener more alive but your amorous little mouth and your cool new boyfriend are proving me rotten. So go, so sick, so half with desperation and half without any nutrients I'm driving myself insane. I'm starving my brain to get the chemicals to flow backwards, I'll wind up with the mind of an infant screaming insatiable, colic sudden deaths you want to see me helpless want to watch me learn to grasp at the sad facts of the world I wobble on my feet like a newborn just like you want me to, do you like me when I drool?


Full stop agonize. I've neither had a full night's sleep nor an actual meal in the last week. I think (hope) I have some kind of virus. Doc isn't too worried.

No fun. No thinking.

I need a new room mate. I need two new room mates. Help.

I want to make (another) list of things gone wrong / bad. But I don't know if it'll help. I've been keeping a running tally, my "List Of Complaints" on my computer. I like when I forget to add something, sort of. Maybe it's better that way? My biggest complaint is that I'm still sick.

I've lost 8 pounds in the last week. And not the fun way. I am prescribed the B.R.A.T. diet for the next week, at least. Today I am getting fitted for my modeling shoot this weekend. Strange.

But there are so many things that are bugging me. Almost all other people, other boys. I'm glad to not have much of a social life, lately. I've been doing a lot of laying down, groaning.

And I'm also sad that Miriam Makeba died.


title of love song


Was Your Past Time

Some Eternity that was. Some Hell, huh?

What I wouldn't give for some fucking punctuation in my life! To emerge from the last week as if waking up. Like "Now you can stop freaking out, it's going to be okay." I want some assurance. And I want that assurance to be: feeling good. I keep waiting. My cold is gone. My stomach is more or less better. I'm still pretty miserable, but I think this might be a chemical truth of me. My 'me'-ness involves some misery. Dig. I just want to go to bed and ride it out. It's almost done. (I guess this without knowing it).

I feel as if I have been built wrong. Like I am missing arms, internal organs. Some intrinsic mechanism of understanding, that software that comes bundled with every other human being I know, I seem to lack. The software I'm talking about is the ability to deal with anything. I don't have that. This is why the Octopus has been kind of totemic to me. (You might not know this about me, so I will tell you. Themes of my teenage years: Octopuses and Zombies, chosen for what I perceived to be their extraordinary resilience).

My room mate Jenny is moving out. We moved into our apartment, the only place I've ever lived in NYC, three years ago (Summer of 2005). Her cats, Quinn and Ilya, are a major part of my life, both blessing (Quinn) and curse (Ilya). She owns nearly everything in our house, has been the sort of House Mom, doing all the renovations. I sleep on a bed loaned from her. Although we hang out outside of our house only sometimes, living with her has been a pretty central part of my life. We have witnessed each other's ups and downs over the last few years and she has been, whether she knows it or not, My Family in New York. And while I understand her reasons for wanting to move on, I am pretty heartbroken.

I don't know what to do about anything.


To start: I am excited about Obama. It feels like anything else is second to this. I am pretty excited. Watched the victory speech this morning and shed a tear.

I'm still sick. I feel awful. In addition to being physically uncomfortable, I'm beyond nervous. I hate getting sick and try to avoid it. I have to perform on Thursday (a reading) Friday (rock show) and Saturday (go-go dancing). I really don't want to cancel any of these things, but I have a legitimate cold. I can't really concentrate on anything and feel worryingly weak, and a number of circumstances make missing work impossible. There are few things that reliably make me feel better. Like, almost none. But exercise is one and I didn't get to go to the gym at all this week. And that really sucks. I feel pretty hopeless. And also it just began raining and I don't have an umbrella and I have a big new zit growing on my face.

It feels like I'm being a buzz kill, but I'm not going to judge myself for admitting it, especially not on my blog. Despite the enormous good in the world, I am absolutely miserable.

Last night I dreamed I woke up on a satellite. (Y'know that song by the Need? 'Pony 4 Honey'? "Step Up to the Saddle. Wake up on a satellite. Come home to Mama. Wake up on a satellite"). It occured to me that it was an abandoned satellite and that no one knew I was there. I felt some kind of machinery turn on and felt it move and turn around, towards Earth. In the dream I had my cell phone in my pocket, and I got a call. I hoped at first that it might be someone to help me, or at least explain what was going on. It was a someone named Jake or something, some generic boy. I ignored the call, much in the way I've been ignoring calls from boys for a while now. The satellite, which wasn't built for human travelers, hurdled towards the earth and started heating up. It became clear that I was going to die and I wondered for a second where I would hit the earth. I woke up out of breath and with my stomach too distended to move.

These things. We keep them.
I am hoping that a small change happens.


Such! Overwhelming!

Yesterday was a black it didn't happen.

I'm looking at my old journal. I used to be so much more superstitious, I wrote a lot about how everything means something. I talk a lot about it to my friends and it's true: my personality has changed in a fundamental way over the last year and a half. I do not feel good and haven't in a while. I don't know what to do.

I think I'm getting a cold. I can't, though, get sick. I have to work and have to write a bunch of things and have to perform on Thursday and Friday and go-go dance on Sunday and I want to start crying. How can I complain about this? Everything is hard.

I am trying not to make it pretty. Not to romanticize the parts of my own craziness, the parts that catalog every thing anyone has ever said. But there is such! overwhelming! evidence! Some kind of pattern! Normal people do not lose days. Normal boys can have a conversation without wanting to jump out of a window. There's a word for boys like me. My stomach hurts. Again.

Heartening that as we speak, our country is electing Barack Obama.


Love Me Yet

Bought Kathy Acker's Bodies of Work, not sure if I had read it before, senior year of college. About Burroughs. That's a nice pair of words, 'About Burroughs', isn't it? I have a terrific stomach ache, and so much work to do.

In a horrible mood today. All weekend. It might not be a mood, it might just be how I am from now on. Good Morning Buddha I am ready for your close-up. A suffering machine.

Realize now, nightclub, that no one cares how smart you are and especially no one cares how sensitive you are. No one wants to hear about your ideas, how you feel about how you're treated. How remarkably significant your lot in life is.What to do, then, with all these nerve endings bundled up like exposed wire?

I don't go up or down. I move laterally, like a sidewinder snake. What do you call them? Sandy, they live in the desert. Y'know, lots of things do live in the desert. We think of these places (on the world, in our hearts) as dead. Like a tundra. But it sustains life too, in the permafrost. So yeah I am like a desert animal I am like algae which grows in boiling water, frozen dirt. I'm not so special, I mean, we all are special. We all live, all the time together.

I am not resenting people for being nice to me. But what am I supposed to do? Top or Bottom or shiver like some wounded bird? You want to wash the crusted blood off of my feathers. Feed me from an eyedropper. To let you witness and capitalize on my pain or something. As if I had a private pain in the first place. Jeez.

I think I will feel better when my stomach does. I hope so. My friend asks "Do You Love Me Yet?" That is as beautiful a sentiment as I can imagine today.
Fiction and power and optimism and sleight-of-hand. So I will make that my little slogan for the foreseeable future: revealing ourselves to be always ready for love.


I would have been like a machine for your affection

I would have functioned like a robot for your love

I turn this mechanism fueled by your attention

I woulda been like an engine burning for your touch


Me Remember You




Photo by Jeanie Hodesh of your favorite dance band / performance troupe REGULAR MOTION, from the movie album GRAPHIC GLORY by Richert Schnorr:

Filming is done. Get excited.


Leave home. Blood becomes a foreign substance.

Went to a party on Monday night for the new Bruce LaBruce film. I was waiting for my friend Susan to get there and I felt really awkward. It was full of really well put-together fags in their little groups, and I was by myself. Eventually I just started talking to people, though. You know, it's such a waste of time to feel bad. Everyone is shy, everyone is awkward.

Black Peter was DJing. I think that guy is so cool. If I had found out about him a few years ago I would've probably hated him. Because, again, haters are jealous. But I got over myself! That guy is so cool. I mean, yeah like he's sexy and stuff and has good beats. Yeah yeah that's like the easy stuff. His
blog is super cool and his art projects are really beautiful and complex. I think he's got the right idea about a lot of things.

I got hit on by a straight guy at the party, too. He introduced himself and kept calling me "Matt". Before I could correct him (THAT'S NOT MY NAME-- I think that song is dumb), he started telling me how cute I am. Isn't that sweet? People never say that kind of thing to each other. He said "I mean, I'm totally straight and whatever but I just wanted to tell you. You're, like, really cute, man." I still don't know. I don't think I'm cute. I also wonder if the guy was really gay and if the "I'm straight but I like you" thing is a line. That'd be, like, too Machiavellian, right? I should just take it as a compliment.

Also met Robert Smith at the party. I recently found his
blog and it's really great. The writing is really electrified, to me. Apparently he is making a movie, Glory Holes, with Gio Black Peter. I am curious and excited about this.

Went to a party at Eastern Bloc last night. It was pretty fun. I got some Allan Cumming CUMMING body lotion and cologne. Brandon told me that I seemed like I've been down lately. I told him that he was right, I am down. I said "I'm always down. I stay down. I don't get up." I left before the auction. I was so dog tired. I went home and watched cartoons and read about the history of the six-pointed star. It's fascinating. Listened to Throwing Muses. I used to hate that record now I can't live without it.

It's so depressing when people are rude to you and try to make you feel bad about yourself. I usually take this way too personally, and think it's actually my problem. The truth is unhappy people put other people down. That's the truth. Okay. I'm actually not some bourgeois sell-out. Why do I feel so insecure about that? In my experience, the ones who accuse other people (at least in my age demographic) of being sell-outs or whatever, or who talk about how fucking stupid it is to vote, the accusers are usually white educated "punk " or "hippie" kids whose parents are giving them money so the kids can turn exactly one trick and call themselves a revolutionary. Thanks I'd rather work a day job.


Organizing some ideas. Notes from Monday. Tonight I'm staying in and writing.

Some incompatible facts:

-- He likes you.
-- He likes everyone.
-- You're part of everyone.
-- Welcome.

[This whole place is full of people who feel just as awful as you do. This might be true. This is not sci-fi. I am not the loneliest little robot. We all are, together.]

I feel sneaky.


Giving It, the Service

Friday night after work I went to Saks Fifth Avenue and spent a $100 gift card on Kiehl's. Investment. Went to Jiddy's pumpkin party. Ate a lot of candy. Escape with the Trannibals present. Retreated to Paps' house to watch Talk Soon.

Sleep interlude: I dreamed I was sleeping in a forest. Surprised to wake up in a stranger's bed.

Saturday I went to the NY Art Book fair. Was summarily overwhelmed. Bought new issues of
Cabinet and Useless magazines. Instead of reading anything from the pile of books in my IN-BOX.

As I am finishing reading
Queer, I realize I've read it before, just not to the end. I keep putting it down and starting over. It totally depresses me, the Burroughs depiction of suffering. I mean, Gay Suffering. It's a queer feeling. Oh well. I want to read Junky next but I'm afraid that will depress me too. Maybe everything depresses me. Reading Naked Lunch didn't depress me. Kinda the total opposite; it is like someone inflating you with helium or setting you on fire. It repurposes language, to me. My friend Justine once told me that it was her favorite book, but that calling it her favorite book was so problematic. I agree.

Also on Saturday my best friend Bobo
moved in.

Sunday I met up with Miriam at Richert's house to shoot our final ensemble dance video on his roof. It went really well, I must say. Jean came by to film it and she had a really cute outfit on that actually brightened my day quite a bit. We went out to lunch and shopping in bed-stuy. I bought an orignal vinyl copy of
moved into my apartment. Stay tuned.Nightclubbing, which might be one of my favorite albums. Also got incense to attract money. Couldn't hurt, right?

Thinking a lot, still, all weekend long, about Roisin Murphy. She sort of sounds like Annie Lennox, huh? And dresses like Grace Jones or David Byrne. And looks (I think, anyway) just like Laura Dern. I like that her first record, Ruby Blue, is essentially an experimental psych record making R&B gems out of found sounds. And I like that her second record, Overpowered, is a completely 80s-style disco record and she keeps calling it "piano house". And she's totally into fashion and clothes but refers to it as "stupid fashion". I think that's great. Also her lyrics are pretty disarming and wonderful, to me. The chorus of her song about Global Warming goes "Dear Miami / You're the first to go / disappearing / Under melted snow". And that her videos are so important to the overall work, I really like that. I'm so, so kicking myself that I didn't know enough to be able to go see her NY debut last Friday night. I heard it was amazing. The title track is about trying to get over someone. And she talks about "oxytoxins ever flowing into [her] brain". Do you know what she's referring to? Oxytocin. I just think it's so great to write a pop song about that.

I'm not in such a bad mood anymore. I do feel a kind of righteous indignation though. Like, I put up with so much of other people's shit, and put up with it so gracefully. I never have time for myself (Constant Complaint: I'm working on it). I feel like I should get a gold star for restraint. I should win award for spirit. Like in kids' soccer, I want to be recognized for my goodwill, even though I may not be winning. (In fact, I am winning, though). Anyways, I want it to be understood that most of the time I'm Not Making A Big Deal About It, and the reason I don't is because I don't want to shame people around me by calling attention to their shortcomings. I am gracious. I give. And I want back.


Word That I've Ever Said

I feel like an abject failure even when things are going right. I never have time or space (let alone money or energy) to do the things I want. Even reliable pleasures fail me now, and fail spectacularly.

It can only get easier, I guess.

I want to quit my whole entire life.


Than I Know Myself

Everybody is so cool. And everybody is so sexy. I'm in a department store. I'm like a the child of a wealthy family. I can't pay for any of this but I'm supposed to be able to.

I can't even talk about my struggle to name the things I want. God. How long has it been since you asked someone out on a date? I'm of the firm belief that in life, if you have to ask for it then you probably don't deserve it and won't get it. This includes applying for jobs. I know, Groucho Marx, Annie Hall. But it makes sense, I think. It seems futile, to try to convince you to become in love with me. Realize how wonderfully perfectly matched we are-- this isn't gonna happen and I'm not in the off-season: there's no benefit in practice, for this.

Gee, everything is happening at once again. I feel like my life is completely parenthetical. All this stuff amounting to context. My life is all asides and semicolons. I literally do not have any free time between now and Monday night, when I'm going to a(nother) party.

I don't count going to parties as free time. Or going on dates, I don't count that either. It's like exercising and eating it's part of the larger routine.

Fuck, man. Roisin Murphy.


Where'd you learn to fly

I have a real moral dilemma. Actually I have a couple. Well, I guess all moral dilemmas are the same moral dilemma. I guess it all comes down to karma. And: "How can I deal with other people's egos when I can't deal with mine?"

I am feeling a bit better after locating myself in the grid of my life. I thought I had fallen out for a second, that I had somehow grieved myself into oblivion. But no, I'm right here. Complaining and getting flexible. I'm ready to start doing more art work. Everything begins with notes, though. Documentation.

There's a real difficulty in finding a balance between fucking and writing. These two things depend on each other.

My horoscope said I might get mugged. Isn't that sweet. Things are kind of happening, to me. I don't know. I wish my life were different, but in really materialist ways. Like, I wish I was friends with X, Y, and Z. I could name them but they google themselves.

I think it's a completely fundamental part of queerness to see yourself as other. And to experience this otherness between yourself and the thing you desire. I always feel like there is this gang of cool older fags. The ones in real life I'm thinking of aren't even older. I'm in a gang too, I guess. I'm always in gangs.

Anyways. I'm gonna go work on art projects and get filmed.

Bye, lover


Everything is exactly the same. There is a really scary ease with which I can deduce this. It's as if everything is exactly the same volume. All instruments playing all of the notes at exactly the same time. Give me a beat. A din to rise above.

Blood and spit and sweat. And dirt. Every temperature at the same time. I'm trying to have a feeling that's not the same as every other one. It's not working. You work really hard and then you get what you want. Or, you don't get it. Or nothing happens. Or something really awful happens. It's the same. I don't know.

I have the desire to apologize, but I didn't do anything wrong. I just want to avoid conflict. To quit everything. I don't want to succeed I don't want to change anybody's mind I don't want to convince anyone of anything. I want to bow out. I want to get into a hole somewhere I don't want to talk to anyone about it. Give me a movie.


One of these mornings, bright and fair. Hitch on my wings I'm gonna try the air.

Even last night I felt like something was going on. People on the train acting funny. Drunker than normal yuppies crawling around my neighborhood at night screaming at each other. I stayed in, cooked rice and beans and did laundry and listened to records.

I felt then and feel now a real sense of uncertainty. Something is going to happen. I don't know. Tonight I'm trying to structure my evening to be as secretive and powerful as possible. I am having a hard time getting my way. I want things to happen in a certain order and I feel really beholden to everyone else. I want to work in service to my own feelings. Lady Kier has a song that says "If I don't blow my horn, then who will?"

I found out that last night, my friend Spencer died. He was 21, I think. He was about to graduate from college, and I had been looking forward to him moving to the city. He was incredibly sweet, sensitive, and intelligent. I'm very surprised, although I know he had been spending quite a bit of time in the hospital, being treated for heart problems. He once told Bobo that he liked me, and whenever I made or did or was thinking about making or doing a new thing, I always ran it by Spencer. I felt really understood and really heard by him, and always wanted to hear and see more of him. His bands, when I had the good fortune of catching them, were always excellent. He made me a really great mix CD which I listen to a lot. I don't know how I feel. Awful, I guess.

Tonight I'm going to go to the gym and eat something and put on War Water and Florida Water and hope for the best.