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.

Chapter 6 1/2

THE WAY IT SHOULD HAVE GONE

“What an indelible look you’ve got going, you son of a bitch,” Caleb said, drawing out each word as if it might be his last. He was partially right though, I was still clinging to the freshness of a Spring that would never flourish in our grey city, with my intentionally dewy skin and white cotton sheath. As often as Caleb now got drunk, I never discounted his words as if they were any less true. Even though I hated nearly every word that came out of his mouth, I knew he never lied. (That’s probably why I hated his every utterance) I had lived in flophouses and pseudo-crack dens so I was able to tell when someone was speaking an undeniable truth, even if it was provoked by an otherwise foreign substance.

“You’re fucking bitch, you know? I would do anything you asked me to, you selfish fucking bitch. But you, you just want to go out every night, licking the side walk, asking strange men to take you back to their apartments that they share with equally transparent assholes that don’t care about your college experience at some private school in New England.”

I wouldn’t cry before Caleb; he wasn’t a Buddhist alter or a burn victim. I furrowed my brow, unconsciously and deep, and sat down on a stoic wooden chair, my ass perched on its edge. I was ready to escape at any given moment.

“I think I’m sorry,” I said, ruffling my hair like I was tossing a garden salad. Really, I wasn’t sorry, but I thought that some added volume to my roots would increase my chance of making it out of Caleb’s apartment alive, or at least half-conscious. “I should have warned you months ago that I was only, you know, sleeping, sleeping with you or something.”

My vocabulary had been reduced to that of a horny sixth grader and I also noticed that I was stuttering slightly, a habit that Mrs. Habbitz had allegedly done away with when I was eight. I glanced over to my right, noticing a fish enclosure that only housed water turtles. Each of them was using their pathetic fins to try and climb their way up the algae covered glass.

“Yeah, well, I figured. I just don’t know what to say to you Violet,” he said, in a startlingly optimistic tone. I stared down at the floor as he gazed at me with his eyes that had always looked dead to me; eyes that belonged to a mummified ice man.

“Why did you even come over here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”


Silence.

Silence.

The shuffle of my feet on his bubbling linoleum floor.

“No,” I said, not sure where I was going with my argument.

Caleb looked at me, more intrigued than startled.

“No, not whatever. I’m so tired of this bullshit nonchalance. Obviously you really care about me and the fact that we don’t feel, I don’t know, the same, makes you upset. That’s why you left everyone last night and left us all searching the city, looking for any sign of your survival. I know I’ve been terrible to you. I know that I’ve used you. But, that doesn’t mean that you’re  allowed to terrify every member of our group of friends. It doesn’t  justify this transition you’ve made from a saintly, sane do-gooder to a self-indulgent asshole who’s obsessed with creating as much havoc as he’s endured. It may be fair to me, but it’s not fair to my brother, or any of your other friends. And what about your real family? Why the hell should they have to put up with your newfound addiction to grain alcohol and self-pity when all they’ve done is send you your monthly check so you can afford to live somewhere other than the streets? I won’t try to convince you that you deserve what I’ve done to you, because you don’t.  But I will say this; everyone has their heart broken Caleb. Everyone. I know that you like to think you’re different than everyone, that you’re better and somehow less deserving of romantic anguish, but you’re not.  Plus, this melodrama is just making you like every other sad, pathetic lovesick guy who whines about the girl he lost, or never had to begin with.  And isn’t that your worst fear? To be like everyone else? Please, just stop. I cannot handle this guilt trip jihad you’re on.”

“What the fuck do you know about my life Violet? What do you know? What do you know? WHAT DO YOU KNOW? Just cause you’re pretty doesn’t mean you have psychic powers. It doesn’t mean that you can read my mind. That doesn’t mean you have the right to as-s-s-s-s-s-sume you know what’s going on up here (using his index finger, he pointed to his temple). I love you so, so much. All I ever did was good. I did good Violet. I was honest with you. YOU. I was honest. To you, for you, by you. And you fucked me over. You lied to me. You said you loved me when you were busy fucking every other guy that looked at you. Well I don’t have to stand for that. No sir. No.”

His anger and sadness seemed to be making him even more drunk than he was when I had first arrived.

“Caleb, listen to me. I never promised you fidelity. I never promised you security or some everlasting fairytale tryst, okay? I’m not capable of that and I told you from the very start that I wasn’t. Hell, I told you point blank that I’m practically a con artist when it comes to deceptive abilities. But you want what you can’t have and that’s not my problem.”

“Even after you told me allofthat I loved you because you are ama-z-z-z-zing Violet. Or you were amazing. Now you just look like every other shallow, commitment phobe to me. But with a great ass, at least.”

“Shallow? I’m shallow? You’re the one who would rather opt for relationship with surface appeal than actually connect with the person you’re with,  as opposed to the fantasy girl you have on a marble pedestal in your head. That isn’t real life, Caleb. It’s funny because you’re the one always going on and on about reality and accepting life for what it is. Accept this! Accept it, please, so I can go back to being myself and you can go back to laughing at the Friday night stumblers, with their brown bag clarity. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Supposed to be, huh? Did you ever think that maybe I’m supposed to be with you, Violet?”

“Exactly my point, Caleb. It’s all about you. Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I’m not supposed to be with you?  That your happiness is contingent upon my misery, and always has been? You would honestly rather me be miserable, caged, and suicidal than myself? Because that’s the choice you’re forcing me to make.”

“Oh come on, you weren’t miserable when we were together.”

“Yes, yes I was.”

“But you told me all the time that you were happy, that I made you happy.”

“I’m a LIAR, remember? I’m a soul-stealing liar who has a thing for instant gratification. I liked the way you smiled when I said it. That doesn’t make it anymore true.”

“So you’re saying that every time I kissed you and you said you loved me, you were lying?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“I won’t accept that. I won’t. I fucking won’t. No, that’s not possible.  What the fuck is the point, Violet? What’s the point of lying about something like that? I don’t get it. Make me get it. Please. Help. Me.”

“I couldn’t tell you if I tried, Caleb. It’s just something that I’ve always done. I’ve tried since the time I became aware of my own behavior to change it, but I haven’t been able to. Hopefully I’ll find someone I don’t have to lie to in order to be with. But let me tell you, that is not you. It will never be you.”

“Fuck you. Really. Fuck you, Violet. Get out. Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He kicked a piece of cardboard in my direction and swayed momentarily, unsure as to whether he was going to fall or not. I shook my head like a nun who has just found porn hiding in the textbook of one of her pupils.

I left, hoping and praying with all my might that Caleb wouldn’t try to extend some romantic gesture my way, knowing that I’d probably fall victim to his whiskey lips, if only momentarily.

Thankfully, he remained in the place that I left him, looking delusional and buoyant.

Silence.

I did not say a thing to Caleb for three months.

An Open Ended Love Letter

It's strange to think of you sitting in an Ikea office chair, face aglow with the blue light coming from a computer screen. It's easier to imagine you etching prose into the stone walls of a cave or scrawling upon half-burnt papyrus. You aren't ancient- by standard or spiritual means. But, you seem to know so much, much more than me, much more than anyone I know.

I can see you hunched over a typewriter (missing the letters q, w, e), kissing the rain goodnight with your flamenco lips, raising a glass to the creaking floorboard above you, drawing pictures in the dust with your spiked heels, culminating your tribe of dutiful followers with each sentence.

I want to tell you, you're one of two.

Two: the number of women I find myself pining after, strictly (but not exclusively) on a literary basis. To say literary almost implies that you're dull and wordy, when you are nothing of the sort. To me, you're life, the partisan of FUCK YOU's, and the mother of youth. I cannot tell you how many times I've caught myself trying to look at my life from your glitter-impaired point of view. Basically, I've been your shameless, silent protégé while you've been shamelessly praising the ills of city living.

Courtship has long been dead. But, for the sake of paying honor where honor is due, I would travel cross country, through fields of boredom and the slick deception of the bayou, to fall before you, mud-caked notebook in one hand, candy rosary beads in the other. 

Show me.

I'm ashamed that I've been so indirect
when it comes to this.
But here I go again, wooshing right by the truth.

I like to play games.
I like to be frantically clandestine,
imagining I'm some turtle-necked, finger-snapping venus fly trap
who speaks only in whispers and never smiles (or God forbid, giggles)

Now I am ashamed.
Ashamed that instead of telling you who I am and who I desire,
I've told you what I've heard people say about me, echos of my past, a reflection of my perpetual present.

Stories of closets and paranoid suburban housewives.
Stories of winks and notes and tangled limbs.
Stories of heart palpitations and laughable accusations.

I never speak with my own voice.
She said, she said, he said, he said.
Well, now I want to look you in the eye and tell you
I say.
I say.
I say,
that even if The Magi appeared before me now and told me that my universal attraction is something false, I would tell them to continue on their way.

TOUCHTOUCHTOUCHTOUCH

Oh, Panacea come to me now,
I've been waiting for so long.
Three candles I've burnt through, Panacea.
I'm lost in my labyrinthine desires again, Panacea.
Oh, Panacea come to me please.
My head is tired, my brow hurts from squinting, I'm queasy.
I won't mind if you say,
"But I've never done this before."
Oh, Panacea. The evanescent tremors that glaze me over ever so often aren't enough.
Lasting Panacea, speak to me.
Hollow me out, maroon me if you must; anything.
Stifle the piercing sound of this imbroglio that is mummifying
what was supposed to be my temporary body. 
I do not want to be remembered for this, Panacea.
I do not want grave robbers to find me like this, Panacea.
I do not want to be a murderer, Panacea.
I do not want to kill him, Panacea.

Halcyon mornings tell of spinning earths,
proper alignment,
sex and rebirth,
the scuttle of breakfast,
the grease of the pan,
burnt communal offerings
and the death of man.
Gray suit, gray tie, gray hat
gray crewcut:
the fodder of stigma,
cartoon of anticapitalist smut.
This man died.
This man is dead.
We were all there, beside the funeral bed.
He was an era of mold,
of hidden rapture,
of tubes of toothpaste, TV dinners,
and silent capture.
Ruminating through the annals now as the passive doe:
the exploited steer,
and to thought, the foe.

It's Here! It's Here!

 

Tumbleweed Zine is printed and ready to be sent out! If you're interested in a copy, email your address to tumbleweedzine@gmail.com

If you want to contribute, email your ideas to the same address.

Say what you mean, goddammit!
Say what you mean!
Spit it out.
Quit dancing
Quit meditating
Quit hiding
and biding
and biting your tongue, my tongue.
If you've gotta scream, then scream goddammit!
Scream!
No one here will be bothered.
Quit whispering
Quit whimpering
Quit whining
and lying
and trying to sound like something you're not.
Cry if you need to, goddammit!
Cry if you need to!
It's better than a clenched jaw
It's better than a clenched mind
It's better than a sad desire
for no one to find you
or that real moxy I know you have
that fire
that I know,
I know is there,
has always been there.
So, say what you mean goddammit!
Say what you mean!

October was the month that everything broke.

the toaster
the washer
the car
the hairdryer
the bathtub
everyone's bodies
my head
my heart
my will

Too many things to fix.
Not enough money to buy anything, really.

I spent my days staring at my popcorn ceiling
Picking at callouses
Writing
Humming
Drinking nothing but water
Eating nothing but time
Clenching my stomach
Trying to ignore the shit all over the floor,
the spiders,
the dust,
the headache
trying to dream my way, wish my way to toleration.

We bought a new toaster, a new hairdryer.
We fixed the car and the washer.
We managed to afford some groceries.
But the gray water still won't drain out of the goddamned tub. 

And there's three more days left of October

Fashion, Fantasy, Lipstick, and Boobs: A Dissertation

On numerous occasions, when I’ve told someone that I’m interested in both fashion and modern feminism they not-so-subtlety hint at the possibility that I’m unaware of my own ambivalence.

“Okay, I know you’re really smart and stuff, so why are you so interested in clothes? Plus, how can you condone an industry that promotes fantasy over reality and propagates the objectification of women, as a self-proclaimed feminist?”

Their questions are always valid to me, via my belief that “no question is ever stupid, well…I mean, MOST questions aren’t stupid, etc.” However, what these curiously confused souls often fail to realize is the goal of feminism: freedom of choice. If a woman (or man) chooses to stay at home with their children, chauffeuring them to their carefully planned extracurricular actives, then they have the right to enjoy this decision, regardless of socio-cultural connotations. To claim that a feminist woman can’t wear lipstick or eyeliner because it turns her into a cartoonized male fantasy violates the very freedom of choice that feminism seeks to achieve. What if the woman likes the way she looks, with her lips tinted three shades darker and it has nothing to do with being accepted or being a desirable sexual object? Why should she feel as if she is an enemy to the movement, and thus carry with her the burden of guilt, just because she’s been into coral lipstick lately? If a woman chooses to invest herself in the fashion industry because she is in love with design and beauty, that does not make her a lemming, straddling the tide of low self-esteem and impossible aesthetic expectations; it makes her a conscientious observer, a sartorially devoted anthropologist who recognizes all at once the importance of clothing and its fleeting, material nature.

The argument that fashion is art has been beaten to death already, so I’ll avoid spending too much time rehashing what has been said many times before. I am a subscriber to the belief that fashion can be art, though it’s not necessarily always the case. In the same way that a rectangle is only sometimes a square, fashion is only sometimes used as an honest expression of emotion, truth, and beauty (the best designers make the viewer question what each of these really mean, i.e. Rei Kawakubo, Charles Anastase, the late Alexander McQueen). Runway shows that seem more like an art installation (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylzAVXeVl-s) are the most obvious arguments proving the “Fashion IS Art” dogma. However, individual expression of personal style cannot be overlooked when examining the potential creative outlet that clothing provides. Within the last two years, the personal style blog has become a ubiquitous demonstration that both girls and guys can be smart and style savvy. Conventional beauty is not really a mainstay amongst this online community. Instead uniqueness is promoted as the highest virtue attainable. Of course this has resulted in a lot of “weird for the sake of being weird” ensembles, not unlike the art world being overrun by people seeking an alternative brand of conformity. But most importantly, this community fosters and celebrates expression on the most basic human level. We all have to wear clothes (Well, we don’t have to, but that’s enough material for an entirely separate thesis). So, to take a universal necessity and turn it into something that turns the mundane into the fantastical is something that isn’t required, but is just fun.

This leads to the next question, or contradiction that people point out to me when it comes to my interest in fashion:

“As a realist and a part time cynic, how can you find it fulfilling dressing up for fantasy’s sake?”

I find this one a bit more difficult to answer because it requires me to admit that my realist tendencies and my ever-expanding wardrobe (Each new item I buy seems to be exponentially more strange than the last I bought) suggest an underlying hypocrisy. However, I do have an answer. As far as life goes- decisions, goals, relationships- I tend to be incredibly grounded in reality. I’m not a pessimist, however, but I do value the sanctity of logic and reason. Sometimes, though, I find myself wanting something different, something more, something ridiculous, frivolous, and fun. Herein lies the root of my obsession: a desire to be playful, especially when my life is ruled by limitations and seriousness. I do not believe in full throttle escapism because that leads to possibly being featured on Intervention. I do believe in making life as interesting as possible and, for me, clothes are incredibly interesting. Not everyone has to agree with me when I say that clothes are innately fun, because that’s a subjective truth. I cannot stand Sudoku or Dancing With the Stars, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t value the value that they have for certain people. We’re all entitled to our vices and our little means of making life a bit more tolerable. For some, this means watching the live feed of the Alexander Wang show. For others, it means being resolutely devoted to a sports team. And, neither vice implies something about the person enjoying them. The fashion fiend is not necessarily a vapid clotheswhore just as the sports enthusiast is not necessarily a chicken-wing-eating, sexist drone.

Finally, the notion of comfortability is called into question.

“How can you tell me that high heels are not a sexist accessory designed to make a woman feel uncomfortable? How can you say that fashion isn’t anti-feminist when it stuffs women into sausage casings and tells them that that is the only way they can be beautiful? How can you find lingerie sexy when it disrupts the natural shape of woman’s body?”

Before these questions can even be addressed, “comfort” has to be clearly defined. If we’re talking strictly in terms of physical comfort, then yes, some items of women’s clothing aren’t exactly a dream to wear. The repeated wearing of high heels can lead to the deformation of bones, bras that don’t fit lead to chaffing, and girdles are the garment equivalent to medieval torture. However, if we’re talking about comfortability of the spirit and the general ease of living that comes along  when one’s self-esteem isn’t a cesspit of self-doubt, then comfort in relation to fashion takes on an entirely different meaning. For example, I have never felt comfortable wearing “just jeans.” I could sit here and try to analyze the reason why I’ve never felt like myself when I dress down, but really, it’s irrelevant. I just know that I feel most like me when I’m wearing another daily experiment of mine and enjoying my freedom from repetition. Sometimes, this experiment involves shoes of gargantuan proportions, other times it involves dressing to feel like a co-ed in a New England university, just ‘cause. I’ve developed blisters over the years and I’ve been sent home for “inappropriateness” (The first time was in fifth grade when I wore a pinstripe skirt that allegedly showed more pre-pubescent leg than the administration was willing to tolerate). So, in a sense I understand why people don’t get it, why they don’t see the “suffering for fashion” mentality as a fair compromise, especially for women. But if a woman feels comfortable, to her core, wearing a pair of spiky patent leather stilettos, then the bunions she develops as a result won’t seem like much of a nuisance. So long as she isn’t a slave to the image she sees when her legs are elongated, she isn’t giving anything up; not comfort, not her dignity.

Society expects women to be fashion oriented and expects them to buy into the false commercialization that advertises beauty as a woman’s ultimate goal. This is why I think I find so many people, particularly those whose ideals are the opposite of society’s (Neo-Nihilists, Pseudo-Anarchists, New Wave Feminists), who oppose fashion and its adherents. But the thing is, if men and women genuinely enjoy the perpetual motion of the fashion world and the ever-revolving door of inspiration that’s to be found within it, then they shouldn’t be forced to feel guilt, shame, or inferiority. Anthropologists frequently study the clothing habits of past civilizations, recognizing the key role that fashion has on a society’s culture. But today, if you show an interest in modern day clothing, intellectuals may turn their nose up at you and tell you that you are only interested in vanity and being sexually attractive. Their snobbishness is simply a different breed of narcissism, the same narcissism that they vehemently oppose the fashion world for.

So: fashion, fantasy, lipstick, and boobs; not one of these things should elicit shame or guilt. Fashion can be expression and it can be art. Fantasy can be fun. Lipstick can be warpaint or face paint, and boobs can be hoisted and bolstered or they can hang loose and free. The key word here is can and it provides the direct connection between fashion and feminism. Feminism strives for the expression of equality and freedom of choice while fashion strives to provide freedom of expression. They are both about possibilities, and the expansion of choice.