Where We Feel Better

I don't often say this, but I feel sorry for you. You think that if you prepare for the worst-case scenario, that if you function using the lowest common denominator, that when life inevitably fucks you that you'll at least be prepared. At least, you figure, it won't be a surprise.

I'll be specific because I love you and I want you to feel good (all the time, I'm totally obsessed with it). You're always telling yourself and other people that you don't deserve to feel happy, that no good news is coming your way. To wit: you assume yourself that the boy you think is hot doesn't like you back, will never like you. Or doesn't like you back enough, or something. You decide that you will always feel bad, that there's no use getting your hopes up. You figure that if you convince yourself to feel shitty and slighted and unhappy now, then when the boy you think is hot doesn't want to go on a date with you, or you don't get the job you wanted, or you feel too tired and angry to hang out with your friends, or whatever, then later on the disappointment won't feel like so much of a surprise. And, you figure, by dumping yourself beforehand, you'll save yourself some heartbreak when someone else does it to you.

How's that working out for you?

I'm sorry-- I don't mean to make a joke out of it. I only make jokes because I love to see you smile. I'd do any number of embarrassing and painful things just to get a chuckle out of you. It's true.

You think there's no reason to get excited or to get happy because at a moment's notice things can and do change, and then where will you be? So instead of enjoying an afternoon before you have to go do your chores, you worry about your chores all afternoon. What good is that?

Futility is exhausting. I absolutely know this. I want to convince you of it as well, using my body and my words. You and I are not exhausted, this proves we have potential. We're made of highly volatile and combustible atoms. Our molecular structures are changeable; when we kiss it's an actual science experiment. That's what there is to get so fucking excited about.

You're refusing to participate, because you're holding back. You think you can arm yourself, preempt every single disappointing thing that could and will ever happen to you. This is so insanely arrogant that I think it's sweet, in a way. Sort of naive, the way you think you can trick yourself into experiencing disappointment beforehand. I'm talking mostly but not entirely about Romance. You break up with yourself so someone else can't. You stand yourself up. You cheat on yourself. And you catch yourself. And it hurts.

But what if the next time we could just chill out, you know? Not worry so much about something that might or might not hurt. We're so scared of pain that we end up putting ourselves through more of it by fighting it. It's like we're training for a fight with Pain and we think that if we practice fighting pain we'll get better at it. We don't ever get better at it. Pain takes us by surprise, that's why it's so formidable. But pain is only half of it.

What if we didn't think about what might / could hurt? What if you let yourself feel exactly as good as you ought to? What would it look like if you greeted your future with an open heart?

I think often about this photo. It's very inspiring to me. It says that we can greet the new day with a steady gaze, a calm energy, and Total Fucking Beauty. It's in my collection of Things I Look At Or Think About When I Am Feeling Overwhelmed, and it's only one of many things I'd like to share with you.

Media Center



Bride White

In my dream I am wearing white, a wedding dress. Then I look down and it's just a wedding veil over white jeans. I'm with Cotton my best friend and we're running around the streets of Los Angeles. We're trying to get into this sort of nondescript nightclub but there's this group of guys following us. Two of them look like FBI agents, they have dark glasses and earbuds and suits. The third one, the leader, is the only one who speaks to us. He is dressed like some government dad's version of a punk rocker. He has pink hair. He keeps saying that he just wants to talk to us. We've passed by the entrance to the nightclub five or six times, but we can't let the guy see where we're going. It is broad daylight and my veil is blowing in the wind. I hear myself say "bride white". The guy, I decide, thinks we're school shooters or something. He yells at us that he wants to talk to us about the route we take to school. From underneath my veil I scream back: "We don't go to school, sorry".

The image of a baby, I kept repeating. I kept saying to Cotton in my dream, then to myself as I got to the next one, that I am like an infant who is trying to learn to walk the same day as he's trying to learn to use a fork. Disastrous consequences. I bite off more than I can chew. My eyes are bigger than my stomach.

Scott shows up at my house. It's my apartment but he's not here to see me. He's here to see someone else (I don't know who). I tell him to come back into my room but he wants something to drink so we stay in the kitchen. He is genial in way that he never was when he was alive. He's nice. He's sweet. He leans over me when I am pouring him a glass of water and he touches my hip (I read in Scott's diary once about a date of his finding excuses to touch his hip and it really turned Scott on-- I do this to every boy, now). He kisses me and asks if that's okay. Says we have some time to kill, do I want to fuck. I tell him to go to my room and wait for me. For some reason my parents are in one of the other rooms of the house, I tell them not to disturb me but I don't want to tell them why. When I get into my bedroom Scott is mad that it's different than how he knew it. Everything I own has been pushed to the center of the room. He's found all his old love letters to me and he's rereading them. From before he went to jail for murder / cannibalism / being mean to me. I have to pee (even in the dream) so I go and when I come back he is typing on my computer (this very one now) he turns around and says "You know, when we used to have sex it was always half and half. Like you'd wanna fuck and do that part and we'd do that but then we'd spend the rest of the time cuddling. You wanna just do that?" I don't know what he's talking about. I hate to cuddle. In the dream we are in bed and it is perfect. It occurs to me that I am dreaming, this makes it a lucid dream. Image of babies impaled. Image of hubris. The sunlight is coming my windows even through the curtain. Some mean policemen wanna follow us into the nightclubs.

I've made my life around a handful of goals but most primarily to feel better. I realized that in order to feel better I had become (or am at the risk of becoming) Scott Panther and I hope I can change back before it's too late. In the dream sex I am withholding, cold, impersonal, I won't kiss him, really. Not on the mouth. I won't tell him that I'm glad he's back. Because he's not back.

I wake up sick and I know where I'm going.


Indie Rock Cred

Here's PAPS, the toughest urban appalachian balladeeresses in NYC:

This is basically what heaven is like, right? Hanging out with two cool rock chicks, just jamming at home. Loving Jiddy's leggings / sweatpants in this video. And Jess Paps, gorgeous as always. I listen to their records more than is really appropriate considering we're friends. But I'm such a fan! It's creepy.

Jiddy has an art show coming up next Friday 12/4 with my friend Isabelle Rancier at this cool gallery space in Brooklyn. I will post more about it soon but clear your schedules.

Today is also Cole's Birthday. Happy Birthday, Cole!
Here's a drawing he made for me once.

Isn't it so great? I wanna put it in my zine. Cole, as you know, is a woman of many talents, including visual arts.


Also, let's hang out, and I'll tell you all the things you've been waiting for me to say. You didn't think I would, but I do and can and will.


Togetherness Trap

So much about the hardness of the human body. We're stuck. We need to approach our problem (which is a social one, a collaborative puzzle, a togetherness trap) from new eyes. Maybe invite someone else in. There're many options available to enterprising amours like us. We've got wide vocabularies, equally Gertrude Stein and street grime. What's the word? Oh, yes. CONVERSANT.

Really excited in a sort of shallow way (sort of?) to see my name mentioned in Vaginal Davis' fabulous blog about her recent trip to NYC. Her blog is, as PLD put it "it's like a gossip rag, but with people I actually care about and respect". I'm thinking a lot about gossip columns these days. In one way it's not that different from the project we're all engaged in, which is creating our own communities. There's no difference, between what we say about ourselves and what Page Six says Marc Jacobs eats for dinner (poached fish). We can document what we notice. We have the power, kids! So, so, beyond flattered to be called out zinestar by Ms. Davis and MORE INTRIGUED by her mention that while we met at the scintillating speech she gave at NYU (where I sheepishly gave her a copy of my zine, she was a real sweetheart about it), My Boyfriend James Franco who was also evidently in attendance. I didn't see him. But my eyesight is bad and I was starstruck by finally seeing Ms. Vag in the flesh. Also, any time I mention My Boyfriend Jimmy I wanna link to this cool blog post from my soul sister Paps.

I also want to take this moment to remind you guys that I am printing new copies of the fourth issue of my zine, Scorcher. The fourth issue is titled Be Billy. I put a lot of work into it last summer and then sort of didn't promote it as much as I could. I'd like to have more people read it! Especially as I am now working on the new issue and it's gonna be a bit different and I'd like to get some more people on board with me.


Moving right along. Thinking more and more about the idea of a "society column" except, of course, that I hate society. I am trying not to use the word "scene" these days either because it's a loaded term and makes it really easy for people who feel left out (which is, hello, everyone ever) to criticize. So whatever-- writing about people I think are cool.

So this is a sort of viral video for a NYC performer named Monica Rush. Her song is cute, she herself is cute, check her out, be amazed. Etc.

I'd be lying if I didn't fully-disclose the fact that the main thing that attracted me to this video (Thanks Chris for sending it to me even though you didn't know this about me) is that it stars the incredible Nicholas Gorham. I'd met Nick at some parties this summer and he'd always been very sweet. Then we got booked to go-go dance at everyone's favorite gay punk party, QxBxRx a few months ago. It was goth night, so I didn't know what to expect with all these freaky new-wave bands around. But Nick and his room mate made these really incredible construction paper hats and gave me a gold glitter mustache and we had so much fun. He is, as you can see from the video below, a really great dancer.

Whenever I see him out and about at events or parties or bars or whatever, it's always a fortuitous omen. He brings good news. After seeing his portrait by Mx Justin Bond at the really fabulous COLD WATER show at La Mama's Gallery a few weeks ago I remarked out loud that if I ever did a society column, I would write about how fucking great Nick looks whenever I see him out. Check out more fabulous lil tidbits of Nicholas HERE and HERE. (Both courtesy of everyone's secret crush Walt Cessna).

Also in society column news, my long-lost friend Grey, whom I'm totally in love with and miss a lot since he ran away to SF to become an aerialist, has evidently recently unlocked the secret of auto fellatio (the secret, apparently, is stretching). I remain skeptical, having not yet borne witness to it. I hope to soon, if only in the name of science. In any case, congratulations!

OK so let's talk a little bit about Why Living In New York Is Sometimes Worth It. I am proud and lucky enough to have been able to perform with and witness the genius of a new NYC-based all-female performance troupe, named BABYSKINGLOVE. They do these sort of Bacchanalia-inspired performances incorporating dance, theater, music, puppetry, violence, gymnastics, you name it. Every time I See them I am continually impressed and inspired. I feel like a total Aunty Billy but I feel like they're one of those things that could only exist in NYC. If you ever get the chance to see them-- run, don't walk. I (obviously) find them intriguing and mysterious and compelling, and look forward to spreading the gospel shortly. Check out their promo video of them getting ready for a recent show, below (I make a very brief cameo in it with my polka dots).

And now, friends, for some sad news.
Tomorrow morning, my dear friend Michelle will be driving across the country with her sister, moving from NYC to Los Angeles. I can hardly blame her, LA is great, but I will miss the shit out of her. Michelle, as you may know (possibly from her nickname Mickey Pussy-- which I gave her which has yet to actually take off) is a member of the Birdsong Collective, where she writes the hilarious and often life-affirming advice column DEAR MICHELLE. She also writes a sexual fantasy blog called BONER JAMS which is equally vital. Mickey, along with my friend Tatyana, also co-write what may be the best blog in the entire Universe, ever: SERIOUSLY, YOU'RE THE WORST.

Anyways, Michelle is driving away tomorrow morning. I am very sad about this. She is always a really sweet, hilarious, understanding, insightful and valuable friend. I am looking forward to crashing on her couch, and clearing my schedule for weeks at a time when she comes back to visit NYC. Love you Mickey!


In The Wind

Call me when you get over yourself.

Cause I still won't be over you yet, and I'll wanna talk about it.

I don't want to seem presumptuous. I know you hate it when I try to finish your sentences.
I get them right about 80% of the time, but the other 20% is proof enough for you that I cannot read your mind, at least not yet, and I know it upsets you when I try, so I don't want to seem like I'm condescending or telling you what you really mean.

How can I convince you that I like you? I'm not doing it to elicit a response from you. I can't control your feelings and I wouldn't want to besides. But I want to convince you so, so badly that I think you're great. I guess I ought to take up painting or learn to play the guitar and write a really beautiful ballad. That wouldn't even work though. It's like I'm the tourist and you're the castle and you're also person in the ticket booth, charging admission and staring skeptically at my Student ID.

You caught me: it's out of date. I wanted a deal. I wanted the easy way into you. And I'm sorry if I seemed sneaky it seemed like a victimless crime. But now I'd pay the full-fare and I'd even scale the walls if you'd just let me in for long enough to convince you how wonderful you are. That you are to be shared and celebrated and photographed for free. That you don't have to charge admission to be certain that we (the world, potential lovers, your friends and family, even people like us who you may not know so well) are dying to come to and see and know you. You're someone's favorite person in the whole world. Probably more than a few people would say this about you, and the crazy part is that a good percentage of the people who claim you, yourself as their personal favorite? You don't even know them yet.



Last night I went to go see this installation project by my friend Conrad Ventur called This Is My Life (Shirley Bassey). It's at this really cool and very, very small gallery in the Lower East Side called Forever & Today. I think it might actually be the smallest gallery in NYC. We had to go in three people at a time it's so small.

But it is absolutely, definitely worth waiting in line to see Conrad's installation. I met him cause he writes Useless Magazine. His installation uses videos and crystals and very soft carpeting. Without giving too much of the installation away, it was a really sweet way of interrogating pop culture and iconography, and of course, Dame Shirley Bassey. If I could move into this piece and live there forever, I would. Highly recommended.

Excellent date spot.

Conrad Ventur: This Is My Life (Shirley Bassey)
November 19 - December 20 2009
Forever & Today
141 Division St. NYC
Thursday-Sunday 12-6PM

Thinking about:


Green Lime Popsicles

In some cultures, y'know, white and whiteness are not associated with purity, cleanness and beginnings, the way they are in our culture. In some cultures (and throughout history), whiteness has signified Death, the void, total absence of meaning. And as a modern white western male, I happen to agree with this second point of view. Black is always preferable, it's ubiquity is its charm. I think we all know what I'm talking about.

I want these for X-Mas (Kriss Krossmass).

My friend Chuck died twice. The first time he had pneumonia or had OD'ed or something (he was a troubled teen, but a really beautiful soul, and absolutely my one shot at having a real good boyfriend in my entire life) he was clinically dead for about four minutes. He bounced back from death, and I remember him writing endlessly about this experience on his LiveJournal. He described the sensation of death, his experience of being dead as "PITCH FUCKING BLACK". And it's not that I didn't believe him, cause I did believe him, but I always sort of rolled my eyes at that description because I really wanted there to be another experience of death. And also, "PITCH FUCKING BLACK" is so vague. There are a million different kinds of black. Hasn't anyone else read Song of Solomon? With the kids, wandering through the woods? Anyway.

I also remember that around this time, Chuck had been corresponding with JT LeRoy, and had told him about this experience. Both Chuck and JT had experienced (as I said) very difficult adolescences, drugs and sex introduced at a very young age. I was so jealous of the fact that he and JT were email pals, I can't even tell you. So Chuck told JT about his four-minute death and the "PITCH FUCKING BLACK" (Chuck was, despite being a total Scorpio babe and a full-on math nerd, an Emo Boy as well) and it always made me think of that JT LeRoy story "Coal" from The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things. And I really resented Chuck for getting to debate the Theory of Black with JT. Anyways, since that time JT has been revealed to be ficticious and Chuck has died, for a second (and permanent) time. And I happen to believe that he is not caught in some blank black void, but that the afterlife planned for him involves boys in tight black jeans, wearing black eyeliner, with fresh black tattoos of sine curves and algorythmic dance beats, long black clove cigarettes that never go out. There're a million kinds of blackness. Blackness is rich.

I want those t-shirts.

My other favorite memory of Chuck (while we're on the topic) is that once we went on a kind of a date in Oakland Chinatown, to this really weird deli I used to go to where they made fresh watermelon slushies out of fruit sugar and ice. Really good. It was super bright in this little food court and we drank our slushies, squinting, sitting at a fountain. It was a really beautiful moment. Chuck was telling me about how he'd hang out with his older brother (who is a successful rock star) at their parents' house in the summertime, and he and his brother would eat only lime popsicles, get stoned and play super nintendo. And up until that moment I thought I had wanted to fuck people before but never up until then did I want to be part of someone's life so badly.


Find the Beat

Last night (or this morning, depending on how you think about it) was the Leonid meteor shower. Meteors were supposed to be visible, passing through the Leo constellation. Whenever I told people throughout the day that I was going to watch it from my roof, people asked me what the astrological implications of a meteor shower might be, and I don't know. But I did and do feel as if the equivalent of meteors are passing through the Leo constellation of my own actual terrestrial life. Like being shot up, maybe. Like balls of fire whizzing past, but muffled, obscured, made invisible by local weather and the glare of the city. I don't mean that I feel like I've been shot (I don't just mean that), I mean I feel like something is happening and I am not yet aware of the significance of the moment. Is anyone aware of the significance of any moment, though? When they're living it? I guess so, maybe. I guess the trick is to treat every moment as equally precious and significant. But you know what I'm talking about.

To get ready for the meteor shower, Ptrck and I watched this really wonderful documentary on Yayoi Kusama. How to talk about Kusama's work / legacy? I guess I can't really say anything right now that you can't look up for yourself (my brain is fried). Plus, I'm assuming that anyone reading this blog is familiar with her, and if not then I don't want to ruin the really great experience of discovering her work. She's like Kanye West and Nirvana-- actually worth the hype. Maybe Kusama has not been super-hyped, at least not until very recently, but check her out.

So we watched it, grooved super deep to Yayoi's world-view, obsessions in equal measure with life and death, and went up to the roof.

Sort of made me think about the lyrics at the beginning of Mirah's amazing one-sided 12" EP, Storageland. The first song, "Telescope" goes: "I'm looking up through the telescope lens / I'm wondering where does the universe end / I'll take my clothes off in meteor showers / I'll take my clothes off and climb into bed." That song always struck me as kind of sad, I dunno.

Anyways Patrick and I didn't end up seeing the meteors. But it was nice to spend some serious time searching for something in the night sky, even if I didn't end up finding what I was looking for. It's a good place to look, instead of inside or inside of other people. This makes me think of the title of Khaela Maricich's first album, Look for it in the sky, it will always be there, and then again Blue Sky vs. Night Sky. I sort of connect looking directly at the sky with being a kid, which to me feels really Pacific.

I keep imagining hypothetical conversations, reunions, revelations between us. Like, having a revenge fantasy for someone who's hurt my feelings in the past, getting to finally tell them everything on my mind. But I don't have any revenge fantasies. The more I explore one, I don't want to yell at you, and I don't want you to feel bad. Anyone, really. What's the point?

I want to say that I saw you and I recognized you and I hope you recognized me. I want to put both of my palms on the sides of your jaw. I want to hold your face really close to mine and I want to tell you, quietly, how sorry I am. For everything that has ever happened to you. I'll start with this, since it's been coming up in a number of relationships which I would never have thought to question: I'm sorry if sometimes I seem like I'm mean, or if I'm angry at you. I'm not angry at you.

And then extend it to the universe, Billy. Make the sky your own analogy when hot rocks fly through it. I'm sorry for what the guy you were dating before me did to you. And I'm sorry for what the boy you've been seeing lately is doing to you. And I'm really sorry that it seems like people don't take you seriously, that people make you feel small, or stupid, or unsexy. And I'm sorry your parents couldn't impress upon you exactly how perfect you are. I wish they could have convinced you early on in life. I'm sorry that you've managed to live a life among people too stupid and selfish (I am including myself among these people) to really let you know how important you are.

The world is a big and mean place. This end, this deduction about human nature I've been mining for a lot longer than I'd like to admit, using it as some kind of proof that ruthlessness succeeds, that cowardice and weakness fail, and that failure is wrong. But I happen to know that failure is absolutely not wrong, that cowardice and weakness are fundamental parts of everyone's personalities, and that ruthlessness is rewarded by karma and god and evil spirits and we'd all do better to leave it alone. But the fact of the matter is that even in a violent culture we can find beauty. The bea(s)t.


Encourager notes

I called my best friend back home, she was asleep cause it's three hours earlier there, and I woke her up to tell her about you. About what you did the other day. She already know who are, because I talk about you all the time.

The other day I ran into a friend of yours on the train and I gave him a big hug, even though we're not very close or anything, cause I was so excited to see him cause it made me think about you. It was so embarrassing but I don't care.

It's like I'm jealous of you, cause you get to be you. But then I know that if we switched positions like in Freaky Friday, I wouldn't be able to do a good enough job being you. You make it look easy. And anyways I'd be unhappy if we switched, I'd still rather be me, who gets to hang out with you. But you do make it look like being you is fun.

I want to learn how to spray-paint really fast, y'know? And I wanna get really good sneakers so I can climb fences, cause I want to write graffiti about you all over town. In neon spraypaint.

I want everyone to know.

How we could ever have predicted



Throw a fistful of coins in the air and you'll see what I'm talking about: Gravity.
Deeper in, part of our own gravity is that our planet is polarized. Inside of the Earth is a magnet. We live in a magnetic field, and we just found out that there's one on Mercury, too. And what is inside of a magnet?

We're magnets too on the inside: we pull things towards us, repel things, too.
Don't act like you haven't noticed. How do you think we met? A lot of times, throughout ancient history, our ancestors have referred to this phenomenon as "Fate". Thanks to modern science and technology, we now know this practice is more random than once thought.

My point is: I want you to feel like what you deserve and what you get are not necessarily corollaries of a plan, let alone the same one. I want you to feel like you deserve to be happy, and understand how sorry I am when you're not.

It's difficult to communicate this to you. Maybe it's hard to hear.

[It feels like me and everyone I know are all working at a candy factory, getting fed up of cavities and sugar highs, lobbing fistfuls of melted licorice into each others faces. We waste sugar, our sweets end up on the bottom of our shoes and we don't even notice! Shouldn't we be saving it for someone who wants it? Instead, we use it as a weapon.]

It's difficult because I have to commit to saying this over and over again. To remembering that this is a continuous truth.


Moving through a magnetic field, we assume that everything will be settled, ions will act according to their charges and move towards and away from their respective goals and fears. Repulsion and attraction, any child can identify the two-- we're all made out of ions, deep down.

The dirt we walk on is indeed magnetized. They constitute the environment we live in, our magnetosphere. The background music. That bassline, that's been there all along. The song is on loop.

So my goal is to make you feel good. Encouraging. And it's not measured by results or connection or anything other than the practice of encouraging, attracting. Making a pass at the whole world (see previous entries / new life / art project). The thing is of course that it is a practice, the word for the seed of this idea in Buddhism is tonglen (look it up if you're curious) and it's probably more a function of selfishness than one would assume. It's also a function of forgiving, so that makes it okay.

My point is that because it is continuous and more about the word than about the speaker or than about the listener-- it's easy to get distracted. When they come at you and they want you to hold out your hand for so long, it's hard! It's a struggle to remain open and nice and supportive. It sounds like it should be easy: be nice. It's not always easy! As a matter of fact, it can be really fucking hard. Not when they are being passive-aggressive. When you try to be generous and then everyone wants to tell you why they're so wonderful, it is really difficult to remain open, giving, loving. You'll want to pull away. You'll feel attacked, and scared, and taken advantage of, and abused. They'll take your heart out of your body. You will feel destitute, in a hostile magnetic environment, with everyone moving toward the magnetic pole their ions seem to guide them to. Whizzing past your face and in your way. Your first thought will be to protect yourself, to pull away. Maybe even to fight. Your first impulse might not be to be supportive, sexy, encouraging, generous, affectionate, loving-kindness.

But then, maybe your second impulse will be.
Go with that one.



Possibly one of my Favorite Movies, Ever. And I'm not really into movies-- I just don't think I have the attention span for them, sitting through a two-hour 'masterpiece' sometimes feels like reading a huge book all at once. I don't even have the attention span for an entire TV show. An entire song. But Lick the Star, Sofia Coppola's 1998 gem, has always been a favorite. It always reminds me of Style Icon JESS PAPS, I think because it's such a wonderfully generous view into the world of the Tough Girl. Almost everything about this movie is perfect and I love it a lot. It has mean girls terrorizing dumb jock-y boys, full-on revenge fantasies, an actual secret girl conspiracy, and a soundtrack by the Kims Gordon and Deal. And I'm so glad the whole thing is on YouTube. Check it out.

Interview with Kathi Wilcox for Bye Bye Zine Issue #3

(Date / Author / other info unknown. I got this from the Bikini Kill Myspace page. I blurred out K. Hanna's face cause the interview says she didn't give permission to use the photos, if you wanna see them you can go look on MySpace)



I'm a Leo, and while I get along with most everyone, and most people adore me (animals too), it's a known fact that my sign gets along particularly well with it's fellow fire signs. We're exciting, what can I say? Leo's feel a kind of sympatico around other Leos. Leos are very straightforward, easy to seduce (quick to bed), generous, sweet, etc. Sagittarius can be very demanding and particular, but rewarding, loyal (more or less) and affectionate. Aries are difficult.

My friend Avory Agony sent this to me in 2007. I had met them when I first got to NYC a few years before, and we were LiveJournal buddies. I knew they were really into astrology, so I once asked them for advice in seducing an Aries (Avory is an Aries).

I often quote this text. I've repeated it so, so many times. When I first got this, it changed my life for a number of reasons, really opened up my mind about human nature. And I totally recommend these tips to people all the time. And everyone agrees they're totally right-on. Recently I was repeating them to an Aries (they don't mind when you break down for them how you're going to try to woo them, they see it as a challenge or something-- 'tests of strength', etc. see below) and it occurred to me that I am often paraphrasing these tips to the point of actually forgetting them. So I dug up the original tips and wanted to share them with everyone.

(Now that I think about it, maybe an Aries wouldn't be so receptive to you sharing these with them. Cause, you know, they want to think of themselves as being really individualistic, unique, special, etc. and implying that their desires and needs are formulaic might piss them off, sound controlling. Or they'll be really into it, go figure. Use at your own risk.)

"Aries love newness and testing their strength let this be your mantra
in seduction, enjoy.

- Planning elaborate dates...
We love to see good work being done, especially when its to impress us-- remember: details, details, details. Take the reigns in suggesting a surprise date. Take them somewhere they've never been to get wasted, act like everything is magical. I of course, as a native New Yorker, have a few suggestions of favorite places with lots of stimulus and magic. The museum of natural history, take them to go see the unicorn tapestries at the Cloisters, a modern art museum or the aquarium.

- Be the worthy adversary...
As Aries, we are, at the very core of us, conceited people. Naturally, we like to feel like our partners are as cool as us. Walk the walk, talk the talk, dress to impress, wow us with details of things you've read in the New Yorker [Editor's note-- see my previous post, mention of Ayn Rand]. We love to feel like we have the hottest piece of ass around.

- Every time you fuck make sure its different...
This can be a combo of both newness and a test of strength. Yes, we are keeping track. Aries feel like they're being deprived without a rich, exciting sex life that they can fantasize about at the jobs they hate. I've never met an Aries that hasn't been as kinky as me so I would experiment with violating the Aries in as many creative ways as you can possibly think of. Talk trash and leave no fetish left unturned, well at least once...

- Wrestling...
Strength. We are ruled by Mars, the god of war, and love to flex those physical muscles. We also love competition and sports where we can get all sweaty and flustered. If you can, try and beat the shit out us and if you do take the liberty to laugh in our faces for just a second. We'll think it's the hottest ever.

- Make trouble, possibly break a law...
This has to do with rebellion and being bad. Every Aries wants to feel like a character from the movie The Outsiders. Whether yr Aries is Ponyboy, Soda Pop, Dallas or Johnny is a matter of personal taste.

- Presents...
I know it's materialistic, but we love surprises and will act like 5 year-old if you bring us something we think is cool. Make sure it's cool tho, you know what I mean."
I just e-mailed Avory to make sure they were okay with me posting these here (thanks Avory!) and they said they might have guides for other signs too. This is really exciting. It reminds me of the Pornoscopes I wrote for Birdsong a li'l while ago. I should do something else with those. Anyways, please feel free to forward these tips widely.
Y'know, tell your friends or whatever.


And then I'll be done writing pickup lines in public (for today). I don't mean for anyone to feel left out. The opposite effect is happening. I'm trying to connect with you and make you feel really special but I think by doing that on the internet it's maybe backfiring but I can't help it.

And also wanted to get down an early draft of one of the ways I'm planning on telling you about it: I'm really bad with money. I wasn't raised with money or anything, I'm not rich. Basic economic principles elude me entirely. I have no talent for wealth. But when I am thinking about you-- really thinking hard about you and your life and the trajectory you're probably going to take (I fantasize about your future), I get excited. I may not ever be able to play the stock market, I will never win big at a casino, cause I'm really scared of gambling. But I happen to know that right now you're a good investment.

New Ideas

I don't even want to share all of these ideas that I'm having, because I want to put them in my new show. And part of the project of this new show is to express a certain kind of generosity and good feeling, I know, and in keeping with that I really ought to try them all out, but I feel protective of them. The new ways I'm imagining to love you.

The idea for my show is that Billy is writing a suicide letter and it becomes a series of love notes. And he realizes that perfecting how he expresses affection and desire is enough of a reason to not kill himself. At least for the length of the (still-hypothetical) show. Nice, huh? So I can't get into it all the way here, I feel like it'd be giving something away. But I'm ruminating on the idea that feeling sexy and feeling like I like you makes me feel, generally, better. I need to find a more spcific way of putting it. You want me to express affection for you in public, because that feels real to you, or valid or something. I want to shout it from the rooftops if it will make you feel good. I never get embarassed. If you want it you can have it, it doesn't cost me anything.

Yeah, so last night I came home after a really inspiring lecture by the legendary Vaginal Davis, after which PLD and I dined on free cupcakes and wine and had a gossip session with Ms. Davis, where she revealed that A Certain Punk Icon Whom I Have Always Wanted To Bone is in fact a Tranny-Chaser. Among other hilarious / necessary gossip bits. So inspired and affirmed and I'll be thinking about it for a long time.

But so I came home and was a little tired and was quietly cooking myself dinner (making a salad). And I was thinking about you, and it hit me: what if we could go on a real, bona fide date? Like a serious one, not where we just get drunk at the Metropolitan and meet up with one of our groups of friends or something, or where we go to a house party and try to focus on each other when other poeple are interrupting us. I mean a real date, where we go to a restaurant or something and are probably too self-conscious to eat (or, more likely, are nervous so eat a lot).

I want to get you alone, because I want to have a serious conversation with you.
I was thinking of how perfectly I could articulate my desire for you. Last night I was focusing as hard as I could about what I would say to you, to most consicely express how I feel. And I thought "You should really tell him this, this is something he might want to know".

I almost wrote you a love note online today but I thought it might be creepy so I'm writing it here on my blog instead. I know you don't read it, but you should. I wish you wanted to get to know me better, because I want to get to know you. Know you better, I mean.

I was practising too, on Bobo. How to put how I feel about someone I really love? I told her this: "God, I love you. In my eyes, you can do no wrong. You're perfect. It's like someone designed you in a laboratory to be my perfect match. It's uncanny. Like you're some kind of top-secret project, funded by some previously unknown Utopian country, hellbent on making me happy. And they dreamed you up and built you perfectly."

The problem with this feeling is that it's not limited. I want to tell the whole world. I remember the first time I did acid (with Bobo) I told her I felt like text messages were under my skin. Then the second and last time I took acid (again with Bobes) I felt like I wanted to text the whole wide world. I felt, in other words, that my impulses are leading me out of my own head and my impulses are encouraging me to connect more with people. And I follow my impulses. I have deliberately poor impulse control. I'm not into restraint. I'm a women's libber. All kinds of liberation.

And I'm worried that I can't connect with enough people quickly or efficiently enough. Once, I was in love and the other guy felt like he needed to connect with other people in addition to / instead of me and it really broke my heart and I felt real shitty. And now I don't. And now I sort of "get it" a bit more, but it's still hard to make my point.

And then as I was falling asleep I jumped out of bed to write this down quickly. This is the only thing here that's gonna make it into the show.


Sometimes you're lisping, sorta. Like you make your 's' sounds into long, soft 'c' sounds. Like saying the color "Cyan" or something. I think that you mostly make that sound because you don't push the tip of your tongue all the way to the back of your front teeth when we're hanging out together and you wanna make an 's' sound. And I would further posit that you don't push your tongue there because you're smiling. I hope I'm the reason you're smiling. Maybe you're making this kind of 's' sound because it sounds precise, romantic, effete but still decipherable. Because now you know that I am paying attention to where in your mouth your tongue is.

Sometimes you really make a different 's' sound, where you curl the tip of your tongue up to the roof of your mouth. it sounds like every 's' sound is "sh", or almost like it's a "zs" sound, like "Zsa Zsa Gabor". It's really sexy. I don't know if you actually make this sound all the time of if you only do it around me. Maybe it's narcisisstic to think that you make special sounds just for me. Maybe it's narcisisstic to think that I'm the only one who notices it. In any case, I'm going to tell you what the sounds this type of 's' makes me think about, and whether or not yr doing it on purpose you can take credit for it. When you're making this weird 's' sound that sounds almost like an unvoiced, soft 'J' sound, it makes me think about butchness. Like it sounds like a gesture towards a kind of "frat-boy" or fake masculine or something. It's like you're wearing a backwards baseball cap, and I know it's not your style. It's goofy. It's unselfconscious and that really gives me a hard on and I want to investigate the other kinds of 's' sounds you make and what exactly your tongue does to get there.


Just now I was in the kitchen, making a salad. And it occurred to me that I know the perfect way to seduce you.

I know I'm a landscape because you're painting me

What's the name for something where a sentence will be true, but not if you reverse it? Like "I see everything I eat" is not as true as "I eat everything I see". What's the name for that? (I almost wrote the word 'fuck' instead of 'eat', a telling and habitual substitution). Oh yeah, the INVERSE. I often find myself thinking that in fact the inverse must be true, in general. That the fact of the universe confirms certain things only through context. Like that fucked up old thing of like "You know you are sexy / have value because people want to fuck you". Wait, is that true? Or is the inverse true? Actually neither are true. But an exception proves a rule. I'm really obsessed with rules. Y'know: make a personal problem into a logic problem. The beauty of this is that then "emotions" don't come into play, only "ideas". I think I'm having this emotional idea because I was reading this article about Ayn Rand in the New Yorker before bed last night.

Don't worry, I'm not going to become a Libertarian.
But I think Rand's directive to her acolytes (what I wouldn't give for some acolytes of my own! oh, wait. . . ) to "check your premises" is pretty intriguing. My mom (also not a Libertarian, but nonetheless a very with-it lady) often puts it this way, when I'm getting bummed out about people saying shitty things or whatever: "Consider the source". I'm trying not to get so distracted by premises and sources. As a queer artist, I deal in the imaginary, the magical, the hybrid, the uncharted and the new. This is true for all artists who are not male, straight, white, middle-class, and able-bodied. We have to translate a hegemonic, patriarchal and racist culture into one that could hypothetically allow for our existence. This seems basic.

Saturday I went to the opening of the group show Cold Water at the La Mama Gallery. It was curated by Justin Bond and Hilton Als and featured visual art works by performing artists, and was a really cool event. Here are some photos from the event. I don't look so great in them. So, y'know, have a field day with that, haters. Whatever.

I went to QxBxRx to go-go dance afterward. The other two go-go boys they had originally hired didn't make it, so at the last minute they got Richert and Johnny Darling. It was like a QxBxRx Go-Go Boy Class Reunion. I kept saying that, thinking it was super clever, but it didn't catch on. Anyways I had a blast, I love those boys so much.

I wrote a story called "Come a Coven" which is featured in the first issue (theme "INITIATION") of this really cool, beautiful new e-zine (and I think will also soon exist in a printed form). Check it out! PRAYERS FOR CHILDREN

Also (did I post this already?) I was featured in a tiny Q&A for BlackBook Mag's site. Thanks, of course, to the always-inspiring and totally correct Walt Cessna for this.

Yesterday I ran into my ex's ex on the street. I am only 90% sure it was him because we have not actually been formally introduced or anything. I am equally sure that he has no idea who I am (why would he?) and I was stoned so I almost, like, wanted to say hi or whatever. But that seemed pretty creepy, right? If someone came up to me to dish about stuff like that, I don't know how I'd respond. I'd like to think that I am, though, a Completely Approachable, Open and Kind Person, so I'd probably be touched and really sweet about it. Okay, so it's Not Creepy. Depending on the circumstances, I guess. CONSIDER THE SOURCE or CHECK YOUR PREMISES.

But then also I didn't wanna approach him because we basically look exactly the same. I'm a tiny bit taller and he is a tiny bit thinner but otherwise we look the same. I mean: our bodies signify most of the same things (if you're curious what these things might be, please see me describing my face in this video). And then also he was dressed basically just like me. I had literally seconds before just chosen my outfit and almost wore something identical to what this dude was wearing, so I wasn't feeling very generous and wasn't really in the mood to get into it with him, my fellow-spirit-twin. Apparently, he and I have the same type. SO the point is: after running into this (I guess I'd call him a) stranger, Bikini Kill's "Rah! Rah! Replica!" has become my personal anthem, again. With renewed relevance. Super cute and perennially inspiring video below:

I remember getting a VHS copy of this show from this really cool girl that traded a lot of riot grrrl and punk bootlegs, called the Secret Girl Conspiracy. It was a really sweet resource for other record-collector nerds like me (though my copy of Heavens to Betsy's cassette demo is original, bitches), but then I think Tobi Vail wrote the girl a letter about being ripped off so the girl shut it down and then a few years later Napster came out. Go figure.

Tonight, PLD and I are going to go see Vaginal Davis give a lecture at NYU and I am so super duper excited. I wanna sneak her a copy of my zine but I might be too shy.


Down, down, down

I remember saving my allowance for two weeks to buy this album on deluxe Grand Royale vinyl. And I still have it and I still love it.


Morning Pieces

Mars in Leo.

A week in which everyone is born. All birthdays this week and all birthday parties. I've missed a few. I can't keep up. I keep having to go home early, because I'm scared I won't get enough sleep. On Monday night I had really horrible nightmares. I couldn't tell if I was awake or if I was dreaming. It felt like someone was holding their hand over my eyes and I couldn't open them. Thinking about reasons you can't sleep is a good way to keep yourself from ever falling asleep. I have to keep reminding myself that it was only a bad dream-- it's letting myself off the hook. It's encouraging myself, saying 'Look how active and rich of a subconscious you have, Billy! You have so much murky stuff floating around in your head that you can conjure up these intricately horrible nightmares!' but having to parse this out and take the three -- six -- seven hundred seconds that it takes to realize "this must be a dream" is pretty awful.

People often tell me that I'm in their dreams. I'm not bragging-- this isn't a value judgment. Not a positive one, anyway. It's because a lot of people (even / especially people I know and love) don't think I'm real, or, that I signify something other than myself. That I'm a cipher for, like, vanity, or stupidity or something. I get told a lot that I am in people's dreams. It's because a lot of people project their subconscious issues onto me, so I show up in their dreams, symbolizing something ridiculous and something I have no real control over.

I'm thinking about psychic and erotic violence. K8 Hardy and Wynne Greenwood began looking at similar violence in their New Report, ways in which television cameras perform a kind of mass cultural vivisection of women: showing their bodies without faces. What does this mean?

I am thinking in my own life about the violence boys do to each other in bed. Like how we break apart each other's bodies in new mappings of our desires. And how to carry around the various maps, overlaid with each other. I used to have this, but then I lost it, but you can have it too.

Feeling combustible and hopeless.


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