It actually terrifies me to think that I haven't made a post here in six months. As I read over my writing from the past year or so I found myself both pining for the almost manic creative drive I had as well as dry heaving at some of my early attempts at "writing". I have a ways to go before I can get back into the literary groove because I've got the worst case of writer's block. Ever. It took me roughly ten minutes to churn out this drivel. But I will be back. Soon. Very very soon.

My house is a tenement,
open to any and all for a minimal fee.
The chimney is ashen packed,
clogged by years of misuse and neglect.
The bathtub doesn’t drain,
the toilet runs,
and
the hall light turns on, sometimes.
but you can sleep

there,
or there.

There, there is where we kept my great-grandfather,
when death was rapping.
It’s where he drew his last breath.
There, there is where my father took a shot into the ceiling.
He said he was only faking.
There, there is where I fell when I couldn’t stand any longer.
I woke up with carpet spine and wet feet.
And there, there is the closet we used to keep the ashes of our dead,
until we emptied them into the Pacific.

But there, there is the couch reserved for
heavy heads and turned out, spit out youth.
There, there is the counter where we all
sit and sup and revel.
There, there is the place where I sleep and hide
beneath blankets and the chorus of breaths
being drawn in, in and out in each room.
There, there is the shelf where we keep slides,
documenting the lives of wanderlusts past.
And there, there are the guitars and there is the water.

Play,
drink,
eat,
sleep.

My house is a tenement,
open to any and all for a minimal fee.

In Moonland//What Happens When My Sanity Returns in a Timely Fashion//I H8 The Internet//How Very Byronic of Me

I'm taking a sabbatical from the "internet", which by my definition only includes Tumblr and Facebook, the two .com evils that have robbed me of my sanity and will to live these past couple of months. Tumblr is everything I feared it to be. There are people I know in real life who follow me, which totally affects what I write/how much I write/what I post/etc. (I could lie and say that I don't care who my audience is or what they think of me, but, I mean, come on, I'm a person and what I say, even if it's in pixelated form, has an effect on people. When I interact with those people on a daily basis, it makes things weird).  Tumblr is also a major part, if not the single most powerful driving force behind it, of the borrowing-aesthetics-without-asking culture that has become obnoxiously prevalent. To chalk it all up to hipsters would be easy, but it's much more complicated than that. Trends and trendiness are a part of it, yes. But on a deeper level, Tumblr has tapped into that part of the human brain that wants nothing more than to be like every other brain. Anyways, it's a mess and I hate it for all the reasons that I said I would. Blogspot may be dated, but at least members of this community take the time to develop their posts and they sure as hell take the time to credit photographers and artists.

Leaving Facebook was a decision that was highly personal and incredibly uninteresting (by uninteresting I really mean highly interesting to you and highly embarrassing for me) so I'm not going to provide an explanation.

So, it's been five days since I began my thirty day experiment and I already feel so much better. I even look better. ***** so I've been told.

I've also learned that raw food is my friend and my colon whole-heartedly appreciates this new friendship I've forged. I also realized how much I miss fashion blogging, since I've actually had the time to pay attention to London Fashion Week (screw NYFW, save Marc and Rodarte).

Life is simpler these days and I'm a lot happier as a result. Somehow I always manage to turn my life around just in time for Spring. I don't even like Spring. It's my least favorite season. Maybe it's spite, I don't know.

Upcoming Projects/Things to Get Excited About:
-A novella type thing which should be finished by June. It's about a family that moves away, seeking solace from trauma, meanwhile becoming cripplingly codependent. There's booze and a little house by the sea involved.
-My personal zine, which will feature some old/new material.
-HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION, yeah, hell yeah
-An independent film that I'm lucky enough to have been asked to be a part of
-Issue Three of Tumbleweed: The Sound Issue, which will come with a free Lacuna cd. (we're accepting submissions now!)


mmmmhmmmm.

Ennui, You and Me

“Everything’s so dark now, darker than normal” I said, with my head lying on Molly’s stomach. I listened to the inner workings of her gastrointestinal tract; the contractions, the bubbling, the seeping. This was the closest I would ever be to another person. I drew a circle around her knee cap with my index finger while I waited for her to respond.

“I know what you mean,” she said while I nestled my ear into her diaphragm. Her words were muffled, but they stung and surprised me. I was hoping for a quintessential Molly response, something observant and humorous that would expel my lugubrious sentiment from the room. Her assurances typically had the same effect on me as the moth eaten afghan that was given to me by my grandmother as a token of her grandmotherly love; I hated the way they smelled upon first whiff, but they always warmed me up after awhile. I wasn’t expecting her to agree with me. I didn’t want her to agree with me. This had the power to change everything. I didn’t know what to say, but she did. “It’s been months since I’ve heard any good news from anyone. It’s like there’s this greyness; it’s hard to explain. Shit just keeps happening to everyone we know, including us.”

“I know. I really just want it to stop. It’s starting to suffocate me.”

“You’ll be fine. Of everyone, you’ll be fine. This won’t last forever.” There she was, my Molly, lips dipped in corn syrup optimism, eyes alight with “hope”. The difference between Molly and every “live, laugh, love” halfwit was that she actually meant it and didn’t need an embroidered tote bag to prove it.

“I know it won’t last forever. You know, I don’t even believe in the concept of forever. I won’t last forever, you won’t last forever. The universe is fucking expanding and stars die every second. Grow. Death. Rebirth. You know I get that. But it just seems like forever and seeming like forever is just as bad as forever. The illusion of forever is just as terrifying to me as something actually lasting forever.”

“Well, we’re going to actually last forever, so you can go jump out the window right now, then. But, to be honest, it won‘t do you any good because you‘ll be stuck with me for all of eternity. It‘s going to be me, you, and the Mormons.” Molly said, trailing off into soft laughter. Her voice was high and tinny, but never grating. It got me every time she spoke. She ran her fingers through my thick black hair and played with my pearl earring. She massaged my pronounced collar bone.

“Can we at least add another wife before we go, please? I would rather kill myself then spend everlasting life stuck with you,” I said, pinching her thigh.

“I’ll post an ad on Craigslist. I think I’ll do it right now, actually” Molly said with a wild look in her eye. She bit down on her lower lip while she smiled at me. Her nostrils flared with every laugh that escaped her.

“You’re fucking crazy,” I said to her, trying to hold her down to the bed. I was laughing too hard to demonstrate any kind of strength. Molly wrestled away from me and got up, trying to walk away towards the laptop which was sitting on the desk five feet away from us. But, she was tangled up in the mess of sheets that was spilling off of our triple stacked mattress formation (which we called “a bed”) so she had to hop, twist, and add in a few “fucks” before she was successfully set loose. She grabbed the laptop and came bounding back towards me, jumping into her respective boudoir position- the right side of the bed, next to the fish bowl and her contact container.

“Okay, so how do you word an ad like this? Do we say, ‘urban chic couple seeking a third wheel to add to their celestial kingdom’? Do we mention that we hate those people who lip their lips a lot? This is important! Stop laughing at me! This is our eternal livelihood we’re talking about here!” Molly said as she logged on.

“What about right now, Molly? What the fuck do we do right now?”

“Nix, we’re fine! I know it sucks right now, but things will actually get better. Come on, just help me word this ad.” Optimist Molly was back, with a vengeance.

I stared blankly at her. I wanted to have a serious conversation with her, for once. She got the message and put the computer on the floor.

“ Molly, our friends are dropping like flies, everyone hates everyone else, everyone hates themselves, for that matter, I haven’t written a decent column in months yet I still get paid and everyone still says, “Oh, Nicolette, you’re doing so well!”, so I feel like a goddamned prostitute, your mother refuses to acknowledge our relationship, my father is in rehab for the seventh time in the last ten years, you’re taking another pay cut, the second paycut you’ve had to take in the last year, I still owe thirty grand to my grandfather for college, our favorite restaurant closed last month, and I’ve got a fucking pimple that’s been growing on my back for the last three weeks that I haven’t been able to get to. And you’re telling me that it’s going to get better? When, when is it going to get better? Because at most, I’ve got fifty more good years to get this mess sorted out.”

“Roll over. Nix, just roll over…………Nix!” Molly grabbed me and rolled me onto my stomach.

“This thing?” she asked, poking at the pustule growing in between two of my vertebrae, “It looks like a fucking pinprick. I can hardly see it. There. It’s gone.” A moment of silence. I felt some relief. And then, with a surge of pulsating pain, “Oh fuck. What the fuck. Hold on. You’re bleeding. A lot. Where is this all coming from?! Jesus Christ! Holy mother of Mary, you’re hemorrhaging!”

“Well go get some toilet paper or something! Don’t just sit there and watch me bleed out!” I yelled at her. Molly sprung up with the vigor of a terrier. “Okay, okay, okay,” I’m back. With pressure, she held a clump of Cottonelle against my skin. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes it fucking hurts. It’s like I just gave birth from my back out of a hole the size of an amoeba.” I said, biting down on the end of the mattress.

“I have never seen anything like this. Why do you have to make everything so dramatic? I mean, my god, must you will yourself to bleed so much? I get the point. I can have you featured on some TLC show, I‘m sure.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m gonna go get you a band aid and some Neosporin.” Molly got up more slowly this time and I watched her as she walked into the bathroom. Her brown mess of Jewish curls looked perfect. Her legs were long, white, and elegant, despite the fact she was wearing Bud Light boxers and had a nickel sized beauty mark on her left leg.

“I don’t need Neosporin!” I called out to her.

She came back and straddled me, intent on stopping my pain and bleeding. I heard her take the cap off of the Neosporin and squeeze a little onto her finger. The tube let out a long, “ffeeeeuuhhh.”

“The shit doesn’t even work. I don’t need it.”

“Nix, you don’t know the depth of the wound we’re dealing with here. You don’t want this to get infected. You can’t have your back amputated.”

“Molly, I have never used Neosporin in my life and I have never had anything get infected. Germs are a myth! I’ll be fine!”

“I don’t care what you say. You’re in a compromised position and in no place to make a decision about your healthcare. So, shut up. I’m in charge.”

“Molly, listen to me! If you put that shit on my back, I’m going to kill you,” I yelled at her.

“Fine, you can kill me. But, at least you won’t have an infected back pimple,” she said as she smeared me with her defiant ointment. She peeled the backings off of a band-aid and put it on me, carefully, with her cold, long fingers. “There, good as new. Don’t roll over onto your back just yet, though,”  she said.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Molly,” I said, actually irritated with her now.

“Baby, don’t get mad at me. I’m just trying to help you. I don’t want you to be in pain. Or bleeding all over our new sheets.”

I rolled over and grabbed an old issue of The New Yorker off of the nightstand and began reading an article about banana farming.

“Oh come on, Nicolette. You can’t actually be mad at me.”

The truth was, I was sick of her being so loving, so happy, so beautiful all the goddamned time. I was sick of her getting inside my head and making me feel like the world actually wasn’t ending. I was supposed to be the brooding writer, with a rain cloud forever positioned over my head and she was making everything rainbows and cotton candy, cotton candy that never got hard and chewy, even after a good slobbering. She was changing me, slowly, and I didn’t like it. Her lightness scared me, even though I wanted nothing but happiness. Knowing that it was going to take months or possibly even years for me to emerge from the melancholia I called my hideout, I rolled back over and looked at her.

“No, I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I said, leaning in to kiss her.

“Okay, good. Let’s go get coffee or something. I really want a scone. Or maybe a danish. Or maybe some melon. Eh, fuck that. I want a scone. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

Tumbleweed Zine: Issue Two Out NOW

tumbleweedzine@gmail.com

I've got a blanket between my teeth, and I'm tearing at it; listening to the fibers snap. My face is red and my hands and back are covered in sweat. I'm growling; I look and sound like a mad dog.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

My writing, it's gone, he took it, he's holding it hostage.

My writing is all I have, it's all I care about. 

I have nothing but my words.

I have nothing but my words.

What do I do? 

Mom, what do I do?

I hate him. I hate him so much. 

The couch is unbearable. I can't sit there any longer. I move to the floor where I crouch down and beat the green carpet with my fists. Grandma wanders out of her bedroom to find me in a heap on the floor screaming and crying. My mom is a lioness. She pulls me up towards her. She strokes my hair. She kisses my cheek. I let out one last yelp and tell grandma to go back to bed.

Tumbleweed Zine Issue Two: CONTRIBUTORS NEEDED

If you have any sort of special talent that can be showcased two-dimensionally on paper, we want you.


If you write, draw, paint, make collages, or take pictures, we want you.


The theme for this issue is SIGHT.



Email us: tumbleweedzine@gmail.com

He followed me into my sleep,

my dream that I was taking a shower.

I took my clothes off slowly, but hid from him behind a towel-
my body wasn't for his eyes anymore.

I stepped into the mold and tile prison
full of steam.

I stuck my face under the head, breathing in and choking on water.

He came up behind me, naked too.

He put his arms around me.
His warmth felt nice.

But I cried till my sinuses drained out of my mouth and nose
in huge globs of phlegm and grey slime.

I didn't cry because I wanted him back.
I cried because I had him to begin with.

I never should have had him.

I pushed his wet body off of mine.

Get out! Get out you useless thing! Don't you understand?

I went and flirted with redheads and stood in awe of a ten food girl with perfect eyebrows,
once I had toweled myself off.

I had forgotten that I have a face

ears

hair

skin

nails.



I thought I was a depository chasm

where others find their self-worth.



A nameless, faceless tunnel,

ridged on the inside,

that everyone has to pass through

to get to

the other side of living.



The hollowed out ideal

that everyone seems to want these days.


The cold-handed bitch.


I sat up this morning,

looked in the mirror,

felt the bump still on the back of my head,

saw what everyone else sees.



It’s hard to remember you’re you

without the aid of mirrors

or puddles of water

or spoons

or glassy eyes staring right into yours.



I still have a face, surprisingly.

According to my closet mirror, at least.

I would love you, even in that light
that brings out every bump and fold
in the skin
that stretches over your rounded, thick bones.

I would love you, even if every hair on your head
withered
to ash,
making you bald and vulnerable.

I would love you, even in absolute blackness,
in blindness,
in doubt,
your likeness dependent only
on the confident baritone of your voice.

I would love you, even if shallow crows
called my love
for you
conventional,
expected,
dull,
fleeting.

I would love you, even if more than a few paved streets
separated us,
if miles, miles, miles
or past loves, covered in soot and asphalt stood
between us.

I would love you, even if it meant giving up
my former life,
to lose myself in your
cynical brown eyes.

I would love you , even if you said I was
"precious,"
that hideous word
that places doilies on the heads
of all those that earn its title.

I would love you, even if you called
charade!
sham!
bluff!
afraid that I was conning you
with my romantic verse.

I would love you, I do love you, I will love you.