L.K.

I think the drugs are working, and I think you are probably right about the keep on living thing. Can we write a book already? It would be about all of this. About me and about you and about our separate breakdowns and our separate moments when pieces of us died. For you awhile ago, for me a month ago.

You know? Real gritty(you), real pretty(me), real witty(both of us, but we can debate about who's wittier).

Since it was my idea, and since I almost died, I get to draw the front cover, and you can draw the back.

Lines, lines, lines. I am in love with lines, but pen and ink ones not the other kind.

Oh the things we'll have to tell.

A.L.

"Normal" is killing me

At first I thought it was just the stress of everything. Being tired at 11:30pm was just the stress of the past few days and weeks that had collapsed onto themselves and needed to be slept out when one was in a saner mindset. I let myself fall asleep that early and earlier.

A few other days happened, and I noticed that I fell asleep at around 11:00pm, and woke up at 7:00am or earlier. This is what normal is. You are supposed to get 8 hours of sleep, and that is what I was getting.

For someone who counts on the later hours of the evening to get things done, I was falling asleep well before I got anything accomplished. I have re-framed my work ethic to try to get things done earlier in the day before going home so that at least some progress is made.

I am supposed to give this whole medical process about 8-12 months, and it's been not nearly that long. Gotta be hopeful about it of course.

Coping with the coping

It is very hard to rationalize being on this drug. I know so few people who take medication, and are open about it. I feel different. I am smiling, and usually I don't smile. I feel like I didn't earn this sensation, this feeling.

It is something that I only struggle with understanding at night.

During the day I feel fantastic and lucid.

At night, I wonder if I am doing the right thing.

Too good?

Listening to Regina Spektor, sitting cross-legged on my bed. I am a hundred ideas and motivated. I realize I have felt very bad for a very long time. I am on antidepressants, and have been for about a week. Placebo or not, things are changing.

I am preparing myself for the less than glamourous full package deal:

-general side effects

-continued depression

-possible "zombieness"

-possibility of fucking it all up again

-becoming a cultural statistic

-becoming a "victim" of the "pharmaceutical blah blah blah"

-addiction to something new

-withdrawl symptoms when stopping

More or less

They don't make it like you do.

I realized today that there aren't many people who can do the things that I do. People don't think about things like I do, and I don't mean assignments. I have so many talents, and so much development that can happen. This is proving to myself, at least for now, that I deserve to be here.

Everything was calm, cold, and quiet.

Dearest,

I am incredibly tired, for what it's worth. I am still sick, sad, depressed, and very cold. I woke up this morning tired and not wanting to go to work. It took an incredible effort to get out of bed, an even greater effort to get dressed and everything in between and after. I didn't really feel awake until after two pm.

I am exhausted, and there is so much to do that I have put off. Tomorrow there are about a hundred and a half things to do, and I am not entirely prepared for all of them. An appointment at school, two appointments with professors, a group meeting, an audio recording session, and I have to pick up video equipment, and presumably film something, edit that something and finish it for Tuesday. Not to mention reading responses, a food journal, and a paper due Wednesday-none of which I have started. I might possibly spontaneously combust, or spontaneously do something else. Is it worth sleeping if you will only sleep for a few hours?

Art smart, crazy mary

In between the stomach pains and all the too much sleep, I have been having some sporadic, somewhat brilliant ideas. Particularly I want to create physical spaces, invite people to my house, create an entirely new faculty at my university, regulate the world, make zines, and live in public places. This seems about the only part of me that is working right.

Thinner than air.

When I was in high school, I used to read a lot of books about girls with anorexia: fiction and non-fiction. I always draw severely skinny girls. Even when I am drawing from real life, I make people thinner than they actually are. I like to draw girls who look like their bones are wrapped in skin. It's not healthy, and it's disturbed a few people I know.

Make your own artpad doodles:

http://www.abcoloring.com/coloring/96/Art-pad-Drawing.html

Kind of Like a Monoprint

"I'm worried about you"

We inhale and exhale, and nothing changes. Text messages and text messages. There are different kinds of text messages.

From JB: I am worried about you
From JB: Is everything ok?

And you are "ok" in the context that you can wake up every morning, and generally do that which is expected of you.

And you are "ok" because you have projects, and they generally get started, and they generally get done, but not always.

And you are "ok" because you have a hundred things to fill your time, and you are very productive in comparison to other people's productivity. You get something done, usually moderately well, and you don't watch too much television.

But you are not really ok.
You are not really the best example of yourself or who you could be.
And you are terrified if they give you drugs, they won't work, and they will dull you.
Tell the truth.
Write it down, so you can tell the truth.

We're kinda iconic.

You know it's true.

It goes like this.

Life happens, and it all happens at once. It happens when you stop doing the things you are supposed to do. When you are supposed to go to school, supposed to do work. People go to school and people do work even when you aren't there.

You're falling behind. You don't care if you are falling so far behind. You don't really care about anything.

A fell in love with B

C got better

D moved away

E disappeared forever

F barely leaves his apartment.

You got worse.

Isn't that funny?

I have never felt worse.

The external self is pretty much the same as always. Thumbs up, smiles, chit-chat with people you see too often. People I talk to or don't talk to, people I want to talk to and talk to. Gets you to school and from school. External self takes pretty good notes in class, will help other people write essays, and if you say, "Want to meet up, even though you're busy?" External self will say yes, and you'll go. You'll probably have an average time talking about life and its annoyances.

Internal self can barely get out of bed. It feels emotionally, mentally, and physically drained. Headaches, nausea. Details you don't want to know. I have never felt worse in all of my days. Missing class, and I wonder if I can justify it for these reasons? I have never felt worse than this before. All the sad days put together are better than this.

It's frightening. I have never felt so uncaring, apathetic, and turned off from school, friends, and family. I don't want to make zines, I don't want to write letters. I don't want to go to school, I don't want to go home. I don't want to be around people, but nor do I want to be alone. I don't want to go outside, I don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to read articles, write assignments. When I force myself into doing any of these things, it doesn't feel right.

If these are supposed to be the most vibrant years of my life, clearly I've burnt out too soon. I wouldn't even call this burning out. I've burnt out before, and I know what that feels like. You feel like you've given everything that you've got, and you can't give anymore.

This feels like dying. Like I am slowly giving up everything I care about, things I would have fought harder for, but just let go. I am creating problems and messes, paperwork and coursework that's simply not getting done. Projects unstarted and unfinished for myself and professors I would follow halfway around the world if that's what they wanted me to do.

I don't know what's wrong this time, or how I can fix it. I have never felt closer to nothingness. I have never felt closer. You know it doesn't take much to really get there.

I laughed.

Walking home that night, I laughed. You were so typically yourself, I couldn't have been more right. I laughed for the hell of it. I wanted you to prove me wrong, to prove you were something more than what everyone tells me you are. Thing is, you aren't.

Space for another

There's space for another pair of shoes, but rarely are they found at this time of night. Cigarette butts fill the cracks in the concrete, and new skin fills the cracks I have made on my body. Looking at it that way, there should never be another pair of shoes, especially at this time of night. Girls who rip skin like paper, what violence could they do to someone else? I devour people. I take a lot. I want to know everything. Life stories, what you had for breakfast, your uncle's retirement plans. Take everything, but can never give much more than words on a piece of paper, some drawings, a little art. Capable of cruel actions, intentions. I take me with me, I take me with me. Through every minute or drastic transformation of my body, through every relationship (even the one with my cat), through every trip, vacation, or study experience, I take me with me. Kinda makes you wonder, kinda makes you question, when you go to the beyond, do you take you with you too? Do you die with all the feelings you suffered with, all the feelings you enjoyed? All the women who were like me killed themselves, you know that? All the girls who are like me now, we are all so similar, so unstable, and so scared if things go right for a few days or weeks (because they have a habit of changing too suddenly back). Will we be like those women? I don't know. I would like to be able to say "no!" and move back into a productive life, one where no one is afraid of these things happening.

1/16 (18w)

focussed, crude red lines

this body judged for all it isn't.

a truth even you cannot disagree with.

Couldn't see the sky through the clouds

Ever since my mom found out certain things about me I would rather she didn't know, a lot of paper documentation of my life and feelings has become mostly or completely digital. Some private, some public, or semi-public.

Today felt a lot like this picture. It wasn't a good day. I skipped class for no reason other than I couldn't think. I couldn't stand to be inside a small crammed classroom, even though I had waited a year to take the class. Shut down during my group meeting. Couldn't contribute in a meaningful way, couldn't think of the things I needed say. I don't know why I'm here in this city, at school, or breathing, when I can't even appreciate any of it.

For the first time in my life since the trick or treating age, I have some semblance of Halloween plans. As a kid, Halloween was always a stressful time of the year because trick-or-treating implied that you had friends. It was one of those nights when there was a lot of pressure to make plans, dress up and go out. As a twenty-something, it didn't change.

I haven't felt "normal" for two weeks.

It is discomforting. There are times when I am so motivated to accomplish great things, and I can see my future. Today, on the bus, I could see it all laid out. Spend this summer learning code, make zines. Get a job at a camp, or somewhere. Got to a few zine fairs. Apply in the fall for a new media grad program in BC. Hopefully get in, and go to BC for a few years. Get a good job in field. Go north for a few years.

I can't see the sky through the clouds anymore. I don't want to get out of bed anymore, and I don't know why. Fuck. I'm supposed to be the one who accomplishes things in my family. Everyone has great expectations of me. I want to accomplish things. My head hurts, and I just want to go to sleep. Nothing makes this better.

East Coast Dreamer

I have buildings, and she has ocean. We share text messages and letters, west coast dreams, and the same sky. We have fear, and talent. We are raised by people who don't always appreciate our need for zines, art, and adventure.

I ride busses, and she rides bikes. We both like to be alone.

A friend, is a friend, is a friend.

Circumference is equal to

You can have love and a lover, or you can have nothing like that. You can have friends and a mother, or you can have nothing like that. You can have a sister, and you can speak french. You can have love and a father, or you can have nothing like that.

You could be smart, and a lawyer, but it will feel nothing like that. You could climb up the ladder, but it will feel nothing like that. You could be grounded, and you could read books. You could become who they wanted, but it will feel nothing like that.

You will run away when you're older, trying to find something like that. You will meet people and wreck them, trying to find something like that. You will be reckless, and you will be poor. You will never get wiser, trying to find something like that.

You die for certain, and never find something like that. You barely scratch the surface, and never find something like that. You win some and lose some, but mostly you lose. You want it for certain, but you never find something like that.

Subtleties

I wish that there were more secret codes again. Maybe its the appeal of pins or band t-shirts these days. If you wear a shirt by a certain band, you're in the club of people who know that music, and can appreciate it.

I really like the idea of what these artists are doing: http://www.etsy.com/shop/hankycode

From their website:

"The Hanky Code originated in the 1960s in a series of gay leather bars around Los Angles, California. In it’s infancy the code was used primarily by gay men, specifically those involved in the BDSM (bondage discipline sadomasochism) lifestyle. The Hanky Code functioned as a color coded system for communicating illegal or stigmatized sexual desires, within the construct of top and bottom, or dominate and submissive (signified by the pocket the hanky is worn in). These small colored garments lubricated the wearer’s navigation through sexual relations, while simultaneously responding to the dangers those sexual relations play in terms of identity, specifically within an environment of sexual oppression. "

No one would know what it means anymore if you wore it, even though I'm somewhat tempted to buy one. Are there still sublte, secret worlds, or has everything gone mainstream?

Indication

(A young artist I admire.)

These words that I write out, they are drafts of present tense feelings always being rewritten. Usually never edited, they just get rewritten, updated, and presented potentially for the world, but really for no one. Isn't that the idea of the internet?

I wouldn't say this is the best indication of the "I" all the theorists inject into their papers. The "I" , I inject into my non-theories which are subjective experiences. Sorry. "This" refers to exactly what this is. The act of writing, the thought that my ideas mean something.

Am I more than my thoughts, or are my thoughts more than me? Are these thoughts I have right now something I surpass? Am I better than these feelings? Or, am I average and boring, and having these kinds of thoughts makes me slightly less starkly plain?

Everyone but me was learning theory today. After awhile second hand theory is like second hand smoke. Unavoidable, sometimes suffocating, and perplexing.

Cat and Chords

That awful noise is my computer recording the video. The other awful noise is the music. Need to get a new battery and dump some of the million things I have on this machine.

Where are you Sadie Benning?

Missed you by four months. I found your address from when you were a visiting faculty this past spring. I stopped looking in about January, and then you could have been found in spring. You are part of my history. You are still around. I have to tell you things, I want to hear stories. I read the same ten biographies. They all say the same things. I want to hear a story. I want to tell you a story.

I think I expected you to have a big career, a personal website, and a blog. I mean, I have a blog, so why wouldn't you have one? Maybe you do, and I just can't find it. I expected you to run into the world as only someone who was seventeen in 1990 could do.

I am going to send a letter to the university you last worked at.

Tell them

Tell them who I was. Tell them I never felt like an artist, but spent my whole short life chasing that title. Tell them I thought too much. Tell them I was something, someone, or on my way getting there. Tell them I was no hetero. Tell them what that means if they don't know.

Tell them I loved the band Wintersleep. Tell them I wanted them to play the song, "Dead Letter and The Infinite Yes" when I die, and at whatever service happens. Tell them just to play a lot of Wintersleep. I don't care so long as its Wintersleep.

Tell them I didn't really belong. Tell them all this as I am telling you. Tell them I was bullied until I bullied myself. Tell them I had scars because I lived, and tell them I was in a lot of pain, but not the kind that anyone can see or recognize. It's ok if you tell them this. This is something they should know about me. Tell them I would have been a better lover than before, but I loved no one enough. Tell them I drank a lot of coffee, too much coffee, at all hours of the day and night.

Make sure you tell them that when I rode the bus home, I rode the 1 bus home. Tell them I rode it all the time, and most of the time I rode it alone. I rode it home to my messy room, but I didn't ride it home tonight. Tell them I sometimes slept over at school.

Tell everyone I was great. I was great, really fucking great, and I made interesting things. Tell them I was interesting. You just had to get to know me. Tell them I loved the way my words and printing looked on paper.

Tell your penpals. There was this girl, she was so awesome. She was sad, but she was awesome. She sent great mail art. She was really good at mail. Tell yourself, tell your parents I existed. Tell them I was the girl who was shy, but not really shy. Tell them I was your friend if I was your friend. Tell them at the very least I thought I was your friend. Don't forget to tell them the story about the girl getting accosted downtown. The girl I saved, even though you don't tell the story right. Tell them I stood up for things I believed in.

Tell them I was a feminist and a theorist, and I made really cool videos and animations. Don't forget to tell them I made songs. I made beautiful, happy, and sad songs. Songs people loved more than they loved me. Tell them I had a beautiful voice. Try to describe it for them, even though I know you won't be able to capture it in words. How can you capture anything in words? Tell them that I said that.

Everything was short-lived, but tell them it was fantastic. Tell them I was strange. You know how I was strange. I don't mind if you tell them this because it was the truth. Tell them I was strange and I lost a lot of things, but I understood a lot. I couldn't break free from it all, until I did. Tell them I was upset at first, but I didn't mind. Tell them if you think about it enough, you don't mind.

If you forget to tell them all of this, just tell them it doesn't matter if someone is loved, or has friends. Tell them you have to feel loved, you have to feel like you have friends. This is much more complicated, and much more difficult, because all brains were not created the same. Tell them I didn't feel loved, tell them I didn't feel like I had friends even though it might have looked otherwise. Tell them it was a feeling that never really passed.

Tell them I apologized for everything that happened. They will know exactly what that means because I made mistakes that hurt them. I was sorry. I never meant to love too much or too little, to write mean things, or unwated things. I never meant to ignore anyone.

Tell them that life is inevitable, life is inevitably short. Tell them you never do everything you wanted to. Tell them that it is ok. Hug them for me, and tell them it is ok. You will tell them this, right?

(I hope this does not offend or alarm anyone, because its not meant to be read in that way. I am still going to be here tomorrow. In fact, I will probably see you tomorrow. I know disclaimers are supposed to take care of this, but I am too intense at times for my own sake)

"It would be weird for us straight girls, you know?"

I didn't know what to say when you said that today.

Then you said something else like, "Look at us straight girls talking about girls like that."

It's not that you'd care, it's just I thought you knew already. Y'know, the queer thing. Still, it would have taken no more than a sentence to say something, but I didn't.

Not that we still can't discuss feminism, eugenics and human rights like before, it was just weird to be included in those sentences. We talked about "othering", and how we had been othered, or othered people (intentionally or not), and I didn't want to other myself.

I felt invisible. I don't need to make a spectacle of myself, but I don't know yet where the middle ground lies for me. I know sexuality is just one part of you, and its important, but certainly not the most.

p.s. You're the queerest straight girl I know. Just sayin'

New old things

More nostalgic this time of year than any other. I have been searching through finder on this computer and typing in random numbers like 200, 999, 70, and seeing what pops up. Most of these were never put online, or anywhere else because they were too blurry, or not good enough. I think they are more real than the pictures with sharp edges anyways.

When you still lived at home

Earth hour in the old kitchen

Possibly the most beautiful girl in the world.

The show we went to when we were the oldest ones there.

You took this picture, but I edited it. There's still something I like about it.

Dans le bois.

and the Pope got a D.U.I.

And the way that I met you through a note card, it's just another way my life feels like a myth at times. It fits in with the downtown escapades and that job I had when I was 16 years old researching mythological creatures for an old European man. It's funny how you told me you thought of me, even though we stopped thinking of each other after awhile. It's like the way that I talk to the ghost of my grandmother sometimes when I am walking home. It's like the way that I turned that girl into the monster of me, and made her a ghost and wouldn't return her emails after she moved away.

I like the way that we talk to each other about our lives. Every opening line is a poem, a phrase, a little bit of nonsense that we pedal back and forth because we are writers. For strangers, it's funny how strange we are to each other.

Chere fille,

Parfois, je pense que ca en vaut la douleur. Parce que une jour, je serai libre, ou j'irai dans la terre au lieu d'aller nord. C'est tellement dur. Je ne dois pas etre ici, un sentiment que je me sens presque chaque nuit avant que je dors.

Et tu? Tu ne me comprends pas. Ce n'est pas ta faute. Je parle la langue des tristesses. Parfois, comme moi, tu es vraiment triste Et pour un jour ou un semaine je dis a moi-meme, "Il y a un autre, il y a un autre comme moi."

Le temps passe, et tu deviendrai plus contente. Et moi, je ne changerai pas. Je serai etre triste, et plus triste. Et je te disait, ce n'est pas ta faute. Ce n'est pas ta faute. Mais tu pleureras.

Ca en vaut la douleur. Je sais que ca en vaut la douleur. Pour moi, rien ameliorerai sans ou avec toi. Donc, pourquoi est-ce que je veux quelqu'un pour partager un vie comme la mienne?

Je ne sais plus.

Peut-etre ma tete est un peu trop pleine avec des idees folles.

Avec amour,

la fille qui a le monde.

I keep having dreams about penises. I don't want to go into details, but they are very vivid, yet not sexual in the way that you might think. Most of the time I am dissecting penises while they are still attached to the live male body. I cut open the penises to reveal a smaller one, then repeat this step. The male doesn't seem to care, and is caught up in some sexual feeling that is somehow related to what I am doing, but not entirely. Like they are getting off on something that is in their head and in their peripheral vision.

As of late, I have been feeling particularly unbalanced in a lot of ways. Unstable, distant, quiet. I feel like I am going through a lot of things alone. I don't have someone to talk to day to day, or I can't actually let myself talk to someone about non-superficial things. Well, fuck. No one wants to hear about how shitty you feel.

I can't trust writing things down anymore, I don't feel comfortable in my own house enough to express myself. I don't feel motivated to accomplish things. I don't see the point in giving up coping mechanisms which are literally the only thing I have been using to keep myself going.

Literally, the only fucking thing I have.

a day for lost things

I didn't lose sleep last night. Apparently it is very normal to sleep all the way through the night and not wake up to toss and turn or check the time. I lost time. I am accustomed to waking up every few hours and noting the time, then going back to bed. Even in the summer I would do it. Generally I never have disturbance free nights.

I lost my women's earring collection, the only collection that I cared about other than my mail art. I have three orphaned earrings who were kept in another place, but now they are the only ones I have. I realized they are lost for good.

I lost my ipod touch and my headphones. Gone. Not in any inch of my locker, not outside, on the busses, or in the lost and found. Just gone. No more music companion or late night clock. I think what I will miss most are my sentences. For a few months I would type in a sentence everyday for a month just to capture a moment, feeling, or thought of the day. I stopped a little while ago, but I always meant to do something with them.

I lost my privacy. I lost the freedom to do whatever I want to with my body without anyone worrying about it. The case is against cleanliness. Clean places mean that people can read your shit because they can see where it is in your drawer, or cupboard. They can read letters, journal entries, and things they were never meant to read because they can find it.

Despite saying I am not lost, despite trying not to feel this way, that's the only way to describe today. Lost. I am more tired, and care less. Monsterous days that never end but are actually filled with very little. Uncertain, indecisive, and awkward, I have never felt less like a deer. I wish I could call in sick to school somedays. Not that I am sick, but I think something can be said for thoughts.

Neither.

I am becoming you. You drank wine. I drink coffee in a less picturesque city. We both fade, forgotten. I am a language no one wanted to learn. I'm too hard, and never make sense. Too many accents. The grammar relies on feeling instead of logic. It takes time.

I say this to your generation who never heard me, and to those after and now who never will.I try hard to relate, but I cannot.I actually try at being just this much awkward and not more.

I can see why we are dead




languages.

Did Andy Warhol ever sleep?

Y'know, if I were to do it over again, I'd probably give this life to someone else, someone who deserves it more than I do. I know you can't do that, but that's what I would do. I'd give it to a girl who wanted the opportunity to be a nurse. She would have been so great at it, saved people's lives and shit. I'd give her me minus the fuck-ups, the bad body, bad clothes, and queerness. Blank slate, but same opportunities. She'd be a real winner. There'd be a wedding, a big white, catholic wedding in a church and an open bar at the reception.

Y'know what Judith Halberstam? I don't know about the giant gay world, but it is hard being queer me, it's hard being loser me. It's hard to fuck up everything that you do in everyone else's eyes. It's hard not to be the right girl girl, the right queer girl, or the lesbian everyone wants you to be. I know I probably missed the point of some theory I've yet to read. It's just a process, yet no one says it gets easier. Burnt out, I've read the stories, people burn out into apathy. Work til we don't give a shit anymore, then give it to the kids who work til they don't give a shit anymore.

Y'know I might go to bed at 9:30pm because I still don't feel well. Tomorrow's a fucking long day, and this not feeling well is a product of something. Tomorrow's the counsellor day. Oh, life's not really this dramatic, it just feels like this sometimes. Constantly feels like its ending and nothing good is starting, but that's the quirks of having a mind like mine. I hope I am not becoming the kind of person who goes to bed early because it doesn't suit my nocturnal creativity.

Shoulda seen the other girl

Feel like I've been in a fight, never actually been in one before. I know there are things I would punch people over in the right situation. Body is worn. I have bruises in random places. They look like they've been there for days, but I am only noticing them now. Old scars, new scars, healing scars. They're just there. Kind of given up worrying about them too much for the time being. They're just there.

I feel ill, some sort of stomach virus. Tired a lot more. Maybe its the bussing, maybe its school. Maybe its all the 8:30am mornings on days when I finish at 5:30pm. I don't know. Everyone is tired, but I am usually never this tired.

The hypochondriac in me is saying leukemia. The realist in me is saying go to sleep you silly girl.

P.S.

I'm so tired.

I'm so goddamn tired.

You are a poet

I gave birth to a poem that I wrote many weeks ago. I gave birth to it in a room of other poets, some just learning, others very good at the rhythm of words. It was a high and a low, and a nervous, frightening, but empowering experience. I walked like the girl who could write a poem like that. I walked today like someone who was full of the confidence that a poem like that creates inside you.

It was real, it was slam, it was expression and art. Afterwards, I felt faint and fell onto the couch and said, "Who am I?" I laughed, shook my head and asked again, "Who am I?" aloud. I shocked myself.

John shook his head, smiled and said, "I don't know. This is too real. This is too real."

And it was.

I seem to be dragging my friends into the most uncomfortable, yet interesting experiences lately. First it was the Dub poetry workshop/slam, then it was that strange play. Tomorrow laptop orchestra.

Keepin' it real, keepin' it strange.

I feel unpredictable.

Today:

I lost my student card.

14th consecutive day of wearing a dress or skirt

started to photo-document food (for school)

This week:

Open mic night

Play watching

Orthodontist appointment

Taking back the night

Teaching guitar

Zine making

Life planning

School fucking

Early mornings x4

Late evenings x3

Work shifts x3

At least you have Fridays "off"

I wish I had someone to lean on. I don't even know what to write because I have written everything. I keep having dreams of people in my life. they have all moved on and are so happy, well-known, and wealthy. Something needs to change soon.

Something

Something happened when I was younger. Maybe it was because I was smart, maybe it was because I was incessantly teased. Teased and ostracized so much that when everyone grew out of it, somehow I still heard their voices and their hatred towards me. I became them and excluded myself from everything because I wasn't wanted. Maybe it was because I drew and made so many things. Something happened, and I detached from the world.

I withdrew into myself because I couldn't fit in. I couldn't become certain types of girls because I didn't look the right way, I didn't make friends easily, I didn't have enough money. Because of that, who I am is forever changed.

Thirteen to twenty is a long time to feel this. Every time I thumb through old notebooks, I come across repeated feelings, repeated moments like this where I try to step back and look at it all. I am looking at it all, and let me tell you this head is full of thoughts. I am not a forever kind of person.

Not to be alarming. This is just same old, same old.

Apologies

Endless upon endless.

Everyone needs to make new things, Please!

I feel like putting a memo out to every artist I know, every photographer I look at, every zinester, blogger, writer, and internet creative type I admire.

Make new things.

Write new things.

Take more photos.

Make zines with me.

Please?

I get sad when I flip through my inspiration directory and see day after day of sameness.

Maybe I consume art too easily.

On a sidenote: My mother is too excited by this month of non-stop girlishness. Dresses will be the death of me. Broke down and bought plaid today.

"You could buy the same shirt in the women's section,"

"I know mom, but its not the same."

"I guess everyone's buying those kinds of clothing now."

Review of Gender Fuck What Issue #1 HERE

Canzine 2010

Do I go, book a table and sell my zines in among the awesomeness of other people?

Better me than you

They love you. God, they'd miss you too much. A forgettable, unmissable self writes this for unforgettable you. Nailpolish, coffee and big city. Who is this girl? Go away. Shoo shoo. Big fear, little courage. No regrets. Are you kidding? No, don't call me that. Used to have impossibly high morals. Miss morals. No friends. Sharp pain in your side when you inhale deeply. Gone, can't you see there's nothing there? Tomorrow, tomorrow. Fuck it, I say. All the prophets are dead.

Wrong. You are wrong. Cold toes. Trembling. Scars, don't make more. No one wants to hear your stories. Magic! It's over. Sleep, sleep. Alliteration takes too much work. Press next button. Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with thee, and all the lies. Blessed are those who shop at American apparel, for they shall get laid. All I really want is girls. However, conditions like this guarantee loneliness. Sign your name.
-A.L.

Don't

Only finished stitching my zines tonight. I was ready to abandon them, forever unbound. Save for one single copy, I have hid them away from the rest of the world. I know now that they are made, they no longer really belong to me, but I just can't let go of them yet.

Dear girl,

you are in too many of my Dear girl pages.

-the girl who owns the world

Can't calm down.

Serious, it's serious now.

The pit of my stomach chews over the overflow of thoughts I swallowed.

I am exhausted, yet sleep feels like something that belongs to other people like speedos and mohawks.

You inspired someone today. That should be enough to calm you.

You made a new zine friend, you saw a movie about Babies.

You went to a birthday party, dressed up for yourself.

Does it balance out the other things?

The buying the thing you needed the very very very least,

The close to stitches without trying,

The smiling not because you are happy about happy things

If it doesn't rain, tomorrow night I might pitch a tent in the backyard and sleep in it.

This is one of the photos that is going to appear in an online writing anthology in October.

Never

I never got back to sleep last night. I pulled the sheets off my mattress trying to steal half hours of dreams. It was never morning. Neither the left or right side of the bed could drag me under for long.

When I close my eyes, I don't see the daydream girl anymore. I don't see the wood panelling, the blue sheet, the backward gaze and half smile. I don't see it anymore. She knows something's up, so she's fled the mind of someone who doesn't want theirs.

Not there yet

Lesson Plans:

-you only took 6 pictures this summer

-"sorry"

-I can be alone and you can't.

-We gave up on a Wednesday.

-"I saw it, and I was like what the FUCK? It's like you can't make up your mind, boy or girl."

-Your dad doesn't know

-Catch Dreams Out of Thin Air

Gender Fuck What 2

Speaking honestly, I have had enough of myself and the things that I have lately made. Eight out of twenty pages are done of Gender Fuck What Issue 2, and I wonder how quickly I will tire of it and have to make something new. Page for page it looks better, yet less raw. Page for page it contains the same fears and thoughts I had about the first one, except now there is something to compare to.

I have no reservations about being compared to other artists or people who's work makes mine looks like scribbles and chalkboard doodles. I fear self comparison and getting worse instead of better.

Fewer copies of GFW 2 because I am ashamed of how terrible it is.

To

To the girl who said write soon, so I can write back sooner,

To the girl who whispered every word of my songs as she wrote in a pink notebook.

All the pictures I have taken look the same.

From one horder to the next,

We give each other the things we cannot throw away.

It is no wonder I am bored, I am used to being busy and handsome.

Here I am an unoccupied, ugly girl, dressed in fake pearls and sweat,

Wasting my youth staring out the window at the handle of a kite that is caught on the power lines.

It looks like a little scorpion.

You are no longer my biggest fan.

I am no longer my biggest fan.

Words have found their way up.

Irritable for no reason other than I am incapable of doing too many things.

At times like this, it is best just to go to bed,

At times like this it is best to be around other people, find crowded places.

There is no obligation to talk to strangers, but thoughts dissipate

I am aware that the words I use are too small.

Welcome home?

Fall into bed, sobbing, silent stains.

It's ok.

The long ago pen pal said today:

"I thought you killed yourself and couldn't bring myself to email you, fearing no response."

I take this, and put it in my back pocket with my receipts, change, and a red plastic pencil sharpener.

"Don't think about it anymore, forget it."

It's hard, and hardly advice. I miss the intimacy of cutting, the depth of skin and the amount of pressure needed. Things you don't need to know, knowledge that will never make it into any formal essay, and likely never any fiction you write.

The word September hits my stomach like a punch. I am sicker than I think I am. Another year, I don't know how well I will do on another year of the grind. I am rubbed raw, rubbed raw from all this trying. It's like scraping your knees on concrete, getting up, and doing it again. Continuously scraping your knees on concrete until all the skin wears away.

Why would you do that? Something has to change, and I don't know what. How am I going to handle school for another year? It never gets easier. Life gets harder, work gets harder.

Yelling. There's more yelling. It's so fucking hot. Heat makes me anxious. It's better when no one gives a fuck, like your mother, like your father, like the friends who are busy, and the friends who have boyfriends and would rather hang out with them than you, the friends who are too cool for you, the friends who don't understand the things that make you happy, the friends who party.

Captain.

A few days ago, a girl who was in indescribable bodily pain took the stage. Wheeling herself to the middle of the stage, the campfire pit surrounding her, she begins to recite a poem. As she says it, she signs it to her deaf friends. The poem was Invictus, one I probably should have known, but heard for the first time that night.

I tell myself: I too am the captain of my own fate. I too can direct my own stories, tell my own tales. No matter what pain or thoughts I am feeling, I can survive it or choose not to. Making zines has helped a lot with that.

Slowly I am learning that some people don't care about the stories I have to tell. Slowly I am learning that the competing desires to stay and go, the desires to make something of myself or make dust are always going to be there.

You found my video on youtube

You found my video on youtube. You were thinking about me. It's kind of funny. In a weird, sick way, its funny. You're fine, and I'm fine, so that's all I wanted to say to you. You cared too much, I cared too little. Then I cared too much, then you cared too little.

I'm over it.

And I was like

Kids in our cabin were doing a spice girl dance to "Stop Right Now".

To introduce it, a girl and I went on stage and acted as if we were getting married.

I put on a leather jacket in the August heat, painted my face with facial hair.

She wore a white veil and held fake plastic flowers.

I acted like a bad husband, and they interrupted our fake marriage with the dance.

"Stop right now, thank you very much, I need somebody with the human touch".

That night we were on night duty.

On night duty we sleep in the cabins down the hall from the kids just in case they need us.

I joked that it would be our honeymoon.

It could have been.

I call her Tay Tay, and she makes me smile every time I see her.

I think she's the sweetest girl in the world.

Straightest girl in the world,

But sweetest.

We talked for hours asking each other questions.

She is scared of death, I am scared of not accomplishing everything I need to.

Her ideal date was a picnic, mine was city wandering and photography.

Her favourite movie is Ten Things I Hate about You, mine was Waking Life.

We both disclosed our insecurities.

She told me I made her think of things differently.

She liked my thoughts.

I have never met a nicer more genuine person in my life.

I'm learning to play her favourite song on the guitar.

This might be a summer crush.

Pointless.

I am trying very hard to see the meaning behind things. I am looking at the small picture, scuffling around in the larger one, and categorizing details, feelings, and experiences. Right now my hands feel leaden. My fingers pick through the words and press keys to write this out. It feels like too much work for something I have already concluded.

I won't tell you what I have come to understand recently. You have to understand your own things. You will never understand mine even if I told them to you. The thing is, we are never ready. We are never ready to do anything, and this is mostly because we are afraid of what will happen and what people will think of us. You are no more ready for my conclusions, than you are ready for yours.

I have started to realize that things are not going to go the way I thought they would go. This is how life works. We adjust when this happens. We change. I am going to make the adjustment in the larger picture, so don't worry about the smaller one. I am adjusting. I will adjust. Leave me alone like you already know how to.

In the end, it's not really that bad. It's like stepping back to admire a building or a sculpture. You nod and think its not that bad, its not as bad as you thought it was when you were making it. You just had to get used to it. I'm counting on you getting used to it. I'm already used to it. Don't be surprised.

Breathing.

She said,

"Please?"

You said,

"Maybe.."

She said,

"Baby?"

You said,

"We'll see."

To be honest, today I am legitimately depressed. I woke up this morning sad. Sometimes when I feel this way, I trace lines on my arm with my fingers like I would want to trace them with metal. I saw my arm against my blue pillowcase, and it shocked me. It didn't look mine. I realized I was tanned, more tanned than I had been when I left. Tanned, healthy, sun-loving people don't feel this way, do they? They do. I do.

To be honest, reality is becoming too much to handle right now. I am going back to camp tomorrow morning sometime. Tonight I am straight girl again. I should paint my fucking nails and put on lipstick and hum some tune they play on the radio. Going out tonight. I am dressed like the straight, hooker version of me.

To be honest, I have started writing everything out. I've started writing, and I'm going to finish someday soon, and then I'll give you a copy and leave. I'm just going North, remember that. Just going north. Tears freeze in the North, so no one will cry.

I am not ready to go, but I go anyways. Isn't that the way it works? No one is ready to go, but we all go. Afraid, unprepared, ashamed of ourselves, we go. Happy, fulfilled, with expectations met, we go.

This summer has been great, but afterwards it will not be so. I am not ready to go, but I will go. Can I live like this? I go away and the sadnesses heal slowly, and I become confident.

But it takes a day and a half to recover from home when I go away. I am not ready to go, but I go. Bags packed, pens in my pocket, sleep deprived I go.

We all go. Alone, sad, hungry for something different, we go.
I come back to go.

I'm letting you know.

I'm not ready to go, but I'll go.

When I come back, I'll go.

Little boys

Little boys are hilarious. They laugh so hard they pee on the floor and keep laughing. They miss their mothers and they have pretend girlfriends.

Specifically one night I heard the story of the tall, blonde Russian girlfriend. She wore high heels like the models from Deal or No Deal, wore a short yellow dress, and was very beautiful. She liked to do things with him like act in adventure films. She spoke five languages and was particularly good at English, French and of course Russian.

Another boy and I were rivals of imagination. We were teaming up from two different galaxies trying to fight invaders that didn't like us on Jupiter. Don't worry, we beamed the 50 people on the planet who were our allies to safety. We both wore invisible backpacks that carried our energy scans in it. Our energy levels were sometimes at critical meltdown.

One boy could not really speak. He made noises and was in his own little world. I would pay someone someday to trade us places so I could understand what he thinks and sees. I can't even explain it to you.

Little boys, little boys. Little boys grow up. They grow up, and it only takes a year. Hormones, and they become men.

Feelings are complex.

I am just reminding myself.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Just so you know, it takes a long time to be stable again. It takes a long time to feel worthwhile, loved, cared for, and appreciated. I am not stable yet, but I'm getting there. I am getting there taking two steps forward, one step back. This is my own pace.

When I come here, its one step forward, and four steps back. One step forward, three steps back. One step forward, eight steps back. I wonder why I take any steps forward, or why I try. Maybe it's to fuck with myself. You know, to make myself believe that I'm ever going to get out of here, out of this cycle.

I got some clarity stepping forward and not being dragged back. Maybe its a fantasy, but maybe I'll be able to move to the slow progress club one day. Find other two step forward and one step backers. We would still make mistakes, still hesitate and worry over things (hence the step back). But at the end of a month or a year we would be somewhere. We wouldn't be like those people who dash through life and lovers and end up stuck. Slow progress, slow measurable growth.

Here, that doesn't happen. Here is shaking, yelling, stress. It's the tone of voice that makes me feel worthless, the yelling at 10am. The sighs and rolling of eyes. Body language lets me know that you didn't want to hug me. I tried for positive conversation, and ten seconds later I was criticized for it.

Girl, it's too early in the morning for tears. It's best just to accept it. Progress here is negative. It's negative, and its hard to understand that we lived like this all our life, and will continue for whatever's left of it.

In making progress last year, I made anger. Made people angry, made people think. Made people ask themselves, "Who is she?" Made myself think. Everything I accomplished I fought for. I have scars to prove it. I am willing to do the same this year, willing to fight for everything I want, but you get so tired.

I'm so tired. So tired of having to fight so hard for what seems like so little. I want to take two steps forward and one step back. I don't want to have to hide zines and books and notebooks and keep all my art in a drawer. School is enough of a thing by itself. My head and all the shit it spews is enough of a thing by itself. Identity and love, or lack thereof is enough of a thing by itself. To add everything else to this makes me want to vomit. I am so tired.

I am so tired. I am strong, but it takes strength to stand. I am strong, but even the strong get tired, and want to give up. Two steps forward and one step back. Mon fils, il faut m'aimer. Last night I had a dream where I asked to buy stamps in french from a post office. Maybe I should go to Montreal and stay there.

Precaution

Nicked my leg when I was lifting something last week.

Rubbed the scab off of a bug bite, and a small trickle of blood crept down my calf.

"You're bleeding," some girl pointed out.

"Oh I guess so," I said calmly.

I had to leave the lifting demonstration, got a polysporin spray and a bandaid from the nurse. Later I had to fill out an incident report. I had to document exactly what happened, why it happened, the same kind of form that was filled out when my ankle was broken. I did not feel that this was necessary, however it was policy. I felt agitated the whole day.

For someone with more than a hundred countable scars, this dot sized wound, if you would even call it that, was getting more attention than any other thing I had done to myself. Cutting means I could be terminated if its discovered, even if it's on my time off.

I am going to try to wait this out.

Compulsion comes in waves,

So put on a lifejacket.

The difference twenty four hours makes

Being gone is better than being home.

I have been home for twenty seven minutes, and I want to go again.

Marvelous plans from now until Saturday afternoon?

None.

I already took an inventory of my bruises and scrapes.

Didn't get any mail, so none to reply back to.

My room is clean.

Twenty four hours ago I was painting decorations for the cabins.

Now I am watching soccer with my brother.

Last night the girl nicknamed Chuck asked me if I was going to sleep. She reminded me in my drowsy state to take off my glasses.

Tonight Chuck's going to the beach in her respective city, and I'll lie in bed in my pjs and realize that no one notices or cares that I'm there.

Last night I went to get a tea from the kettle in the dining hall and three people said hello and started chatting with me.

Tonight I will walk around unnoticed.

If only you knew how shocking it was, how shocking it is to come home.

I am going over the moments in my head, of all the things that I have done in the past 10 days.

Life ain't easy for anyone.

But it's especially not easy like this.

I'm not a drinker,

But I might need a drink.

Little Grace

Seventeen, tongue pierced.

"I have twelve piercings, but you can't see them all,"

She says as she winks at you.

Little rainbow bracelet round her wrist.

Wants to know about the note you left in her staff mailbox.

The one that was tied with long blades of grass.

Her earliest celebrity crush was on the spice girls,

Fitting in.

And it feels weird.

Green girls

Green, awkward girls,

Send little yellow envelopes,

With purple lined pages,

Covered in scratchy blue printing,

That ask for little white dates,

Sent in red mail boxes,

Delivered by black shoed postworkers,

To navy front doors,

Slid through golden mail slots,

And land on beige front carpets,

Picked up by pink manicured fingers,

Of mothers in teal tanktops,

Which are placed on grey granite counters.

Curious striped socks wander,

On dark hardwood floors,

Brown eyes scan,

The little yellow envelope,

And the scratchy blue printing,

From one green, awkward girl

To another.

Growing pains.

At the end of a party,

A girl told a younger girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new,

Too awkward."

"But I like you," she said.

"Too bad," the older one replied back.

And walked away.

The younger girl grew up

In the middle of the street,

She told an even younger girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new,

Too awkward."

"But I like you," the even younger girl said. "I really like you."

"Too bad," she said.

She too walked away.

The even younger girl grew up.

At the end of the night,

She told a younger than her girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new

Too awkward."

"But I like you," the younger than her girl said. "I really really like you."

"Too bad," she said.

She walked away just like the others did.

The even younger than her girl grew up.

I don't even have to tell you what she said to the girl who was younger than her

In the middle of a field at night.

Everything happened just like it happened before.

On days when

On days when:

Your aunt can't remember that your mom drives a blue car,

Your aunt looks at you with a confused, distant look,

Your course supervisor sends you a stern "I'm disappointed in you" email at 8:00am,

On days when:

You call said course supervisor, leave a message, and miss the return call,

You call again and leave a message but you can't remember your cellphone number because you are so shaken up,

You actually leave a message that goes:

"its alyson, I'm returning your call, my phone number is 905 716- shit. I forgot my phone number right now. Sorry, just call me back."

On days when:

You are asked a hundred times how your project is going,

You you get a dual sympathetic/stern get-your-shit-done email from Liss Platt,

You drink so much coffee you might throw up,

You run into the only other student in your course (who you never want to see again),

On days when:

You feel like the world is against you,

Your mother yells at you for doing "nothing" at school all day,

Your sister sides with your professors instead of you,

On days when:

Your find time sensitive forms you should have mailed in three weeks ago,

Your older friend asks you what you should do with your life,

Your dinner plans start at 8:30 instead of 7:30pm because they're running late,

On days when:

You don't bring the key to John's apartment

You can't grab a glass of water or go in even though he said you could because you have no key,

You spend said hour in Jackson square

On days when:

You are too scared to check your email,

You can't go to sleep

You just have to laugh.

Because its been so terrible,

It's actually funny.

Dear universe,

Dear universe,

What do I do on nights like these? I cannot bother sleeping bodies, I cannot find waking bodies to talk to. I can talk to paper, talk to air, talk to nothing, talk to the nothingness, le néant. I could send e-mails, send text messages, write letters to send in the daylight, but no one is here to talk to. In all honesty, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

I made art, I made art, yet I am supposed to be making a website. All I want to do is make everything right. I don't feel ok. I am so far from ok, I forgot what ok is supposed to feel like when you actually feel ok, and aren't lying about it.

My aunt is dying. I ate the pasta she cooked for us a few days ago. That will probably be the last time she makes it. Fuck. I need a hug, I need a hug like an addict needs their fix. I am an addict though, so I guess that simile doesn't work as well as it ought to.

I can't stop shaking, universe. I can't stop crying. I can't stop feeling like nobody cares. I see my mom in the morning, I say hi. She goes out, then I go out. I come home and she is watching television (this is around 8pm). I watch some tv with her even though I don't care to. I go into my room, later I will say goodnight. We repeat this night after night, not really connecting.

My sister will not let me touch her. I can't even tap her on the shoulder. She freaks out. I asked her for another hug today, and she said she doesn't give hugs. I asked again, and she said she would. One arm rested at her side, her hand clutching the bag she calls her best friend, and the other embraces me.

"It's not really a hug unless you use both arms," I say. She smirks, then walks past me.

Universe, I do not know if I am strong enough for camp this year. Every year I've always stopped cutting about a month before I go. I never cut in the summer, never at camp. I have scabs, I have newly healing scars. I have desire and compulsion. I am so scared of being discovered.

Universe, I have been cutting for 5, maybe 6 years now. I have yet to really get better. I have yet to stop cutting for good. I have yet to love myself enough to stop.

And these nights seem to just get worse and worse. What am I supposed to do when they get worse than this? What am I supposed to do? At best, anything this late is an annoyance to anyone. An annoyance, and for what? So I can stop feeling sad for a bit? So I don't cut myself? Big fucking deal. I'm supposed to know how to deal with things on my own, aren't I?

I read the wikipedia on a book that there are currently no requestable copies of at the library. It states nothing matters as much as we think it does. In fact, it barely matters at all. I don't know if this idea makes me feel better or worse right now.

It's 4:00am.

I am sorry universe for putting you through this. I feel like you can handle anything I tell you because you are so large. Large enough for the earth and all its problems.

Goodnight.

-A,L.