Circe winked before...

For posterity's sake I think it makes sense to update publishing on both journals. Plus I'm an ego-maniacal writer who lives to have people read her work.

http://tinyurl.com/2e8sq9

So, this will probably be the last personal/editorial entry made to this website.
From now on my blog will be located at: www.survivingmyself.com
I hope you'll all come to visit, I'm really trying to make a go of it.

This journal will still be open to comment on everyone else's stuff, and to put up drafts of poems I'm working on.
So basically after this entry, make sure you have friends enabled, because this is it for public posting.

I feel like I need to say something quickly that is both sappy and moving.
It's been a long road, and it's been documented here for the most part.
It's been real . . .

if all goes well this might be my last personal entry on this blog. I'm moving my stuff over to my own site soon. I'll give you all the info so we can stay in touch.
I thought I wanted to keep all my archives. This journal has been going on since August of '01. It is the longest thread in my life still intact.
But tonight I saw some old entries and some old comments, and recalled that everyone I loved has left their footprints here. And I know we are supposed to save photos and cards to remember the past, but I've never had that trait.
So I'm not sure what I'll archive, all I know i that seeing their names was another pointless excercise in pain.

So I've just spent the past four hours researching grad schools and related materials. I registered for both of my GRE tests in the spring (that cost a shiny penny). My eyeballs literally ache. I also think I might be coming down with some sort of mild cold or flu.
It's exciting to review this stuff, but it's also nerve wracking, because I know that I want to get in to grad school, specifically to a Ph.D program. But to get in means I'm signing my life away for 6 years. It's a very werid feeling to want to tie myself down like that.
but I'm also excited that it's also time to start preparing to pick schools.
Tonight I discover Claremont, and think i'll explore it's programs more.
I also can't decide about writing or modern american literature. I need a program to combine the two.
oh well I do go on. And I feel like my head is about to explode.

I've listened to this damn song at least 40 times int he past three days. it's sick. I can't get it out of my head, and I don't want to. Even as I'm listening I just wat to listen again.
I haven't felt this way about a song in years.
It pulls apart my soul. I want to be the girl in the blue dress. I want to be the singer. I want to be the frat boys, and the empty dance floor. i want to be the fences.
I know i'll get tired of it by the time the album comes out and everyone falls in love with it, but until then I'm doomed to have to go to freaking mysapce to listen to this song.

Dear God of All Things Mike Doughty -
I know you like me more then most people. Please send me this song to put in my itunes. Or maybe an even better one by Mike.
Thanks
the girl in the pajamas.

P.S I've listened to the song twice while typing this little post. It's a disease I want.

I think more atheists should be theology majors.

Kill me.


P.S. - In the spirit of the holiday I will try to write something more thankful later.

So I won this contest to go check out the soundcheck for Mike Doughty's show tonight. Turns out I'm the only one who won, and no one could go with me. I'm sitting in a corner, invisible in the open, and listening to them tune up and play tremendous brunettes (Mike & Scrap) and ponder as to whether they had called to tell me about it. They were running late. I stayed quiet.
After they were done I ran up and against all the commonsense in my body, I introduced myself. They didn't have any time, so I thanked them and asked Mike if he would do me a favor and if he had a sharpie could he sign something for my sister, because she couldn't leave work early to come with me. He said he had a pen, and I said, let's see if it'll work. When I pulled the trinket that I wanted him to sign out of my bag, and handed it to him, he told me to hold on, he'd get a sharpie.
The fact that he recognized in this object, which meant the world to me when my sister gave it to me, the importance, and treated with the reverence one would treat a photograph, meant more to me then meeting him.
He was awesome. He was nice, and surprisingly human.
The concert was hands down the best I've ever seen.
Most importantly, Kate cried when she saw the signed keytag. And later, after the show, when I went up to introduce her, he remembered what he had signed for her.
I know I'm not telling this right. I'm too tired to find the words to express emotional gifts and too slow to find the words for gratitude and the increase in personal depth one can achieve through another's understanding.
I'm not where I need to be yet.
Kate's 20 months closer then she's ever been in her life.
Mike Doughty was an angel with a homeless voice.
And as sad as I feel, I hope that in 7 years time, I'll be right where I need to be.

If you liked :
The Safety of Objects
Americian Beauty
or most independant films with good characters and no explosions
check out - Little Children
it's out on DVD now. really really good.

Neil?

This has been another week from Hell. I'm not surprised, just exhausted.
Monday morning I got a little twinge in the corner of my jaw, and thought to myself "self - I haven't been to a dentist in about six years, I'll make an appointment." And I promptly did - for December 5th.
I had a crazy week at work, so after scheduling the appt. I ran around like a maniac for the next 9 hours, and then went to school. By the time I got home I noticed the pain had spread a bit.
Tuesday went much the same, except by the time I got in from class My whole head ached.
And worse and worse.
Today y boss made me call the dentist, because I was unbearable. They squeezed me in and it turns out that I have a horrendous infection that has been exacerbated by - get this - stress and my medication.
So I can't drink on my antibiotics, and I've had a migraine for at least a day.
But the week wasn't all bad.
Turns out I won a contest to see Mike Doughty's soundcheck before the concert on monday. I'll get to talk to him after the soundcheck. I'm hopeful that I won't puke on him out of nervousness. I know I sounded like an idiot when I met Neil. me: "blah blah blah, marry me or I'll kill my cat, blah blah blah"
And tonight I got my shiny new best friend.
He's running leopard, and has an extra gig of memory. His keyboard is raised and one piece, and the keys still have letters on them.
I think his name is Lucien, but I am not sure. I guess I'm waiting for him to tell me.

I tried to make a list of things that always make me smile earlier this year. I had to stop after the song "Birdhouse in my Soul"; conversations with far away friends; and the apocalypse - i couldn't think of anything else. nothing consistent. most good friends tell you the truth, which doesn't usually involve smiling. chocolate and alcohol make me feel guilty. as for flowers, well you all know about that......
i wanted that list for weeks like the past few. where no amount of people or affection can touch me. i lie to myself, say there was one who could, but a piece of me knows i would just push that away too.
so i put words together, in hopes of an unlikely original thought.
i think about eric on nights like this, and wonder how small that final straw must have been. how we foolishly think we could have been there, when the truth stands that no one can be there when your mind goes inside it's own trap door.

By the way, learning how to write better fiction has also helped me figure out why a lot of things don't work in tv and movies. For example - in a hour long mystery show, the bad guy in act 3, MUST present initially in act 1, or at the very least early act 2. Otherwise it just feels cheap. Come on people, it's basic common sense, we don't like to be blindsided like we are in reality.
I came into huge problems initially in my writing because I have a tendency towards post-modernism, which replicates the inexplicablity (I know it's not a real word) of reality. Still not very satisfying to read or watch.

I've tried a beer, enough carbs to kill a banquet of Celiacs, a sedative, and all the bad tv shows I've ever tivoed. I'm still awake.
Tomorrow is the memorial. I have nothing to wear. I had to choose between looking like a real estate agent or an equestrian headmistress. I know it's not important.
What is important is the fierceness with which I don't want to see my family. I don't think I can explain it well enough for you to understand fully. But I can't sleep, so I'll try. Maybe I need to purge.
I complain about seeing my regular family, because it's awkward and we pick at each other until everyone wishes they were dead.
I complain about seeing my regular family because they drink and carry-on and make me sad in such a feeling of infinite truth that I can't comprehend the feeling aside form likening it to threading a needle with my soul.
That's my regular, 3 times a year family.
This is the family I haven't seen since I was about 12.
Mostly these people consist of two aunts (one biological) and two uncles (one biological).
They contain within their ranks a farmer, who robbed my dead uncle after his stroke 14 years ago and they hadn't spoken since. Another Uncle who works for Haliburton. An aunt who hates absolutley everything about my mother, her sister. Five cousins who have been home schooled, most of whom I've never even laid eyes on. And an entire family that subscribes to the true catholic beliefs of Mel Gibson and the Opus Dei.
They are bigots, and fanatics, and viciously fake and awful. Plus the haliburton uncle is lewd and I don't trust him farther then I can throw his boss, Cheney.

there shouldn't be any scenes. they are some variation of the classic North American WASP when they get together. But It's a day of awfulness none the less.
these people hadn't seen my Uncle Gil in over a decade. These people do not approve of the way normal people live. they give my mother hell about raising me and my sisters in the fashion she did.
I hate these people.

Good news is ti should get me going enough to get some additional poetry up here by the end of the weekend. Can't wait till the new mac gets here, then i could take it with me.

For those of you who talk to me in the real world you know that I have been planning on buying a new laptop for way too long. The problem for those of us with discerning taste is that we don't want a cheap piece of crap, we want a mac with leopard and lots of memory.
This is what I've just purchased.
I'm extremely excited.
It's going to be weird not having to wait for my google homepage to load. It's going to really weird having keys with writing on them (I literally wore away all the letters and punctuation off of my keyboard except for the Q, P, Z, X and half a W).
I got the baseline model of the new macbook, which i swore I wouldn't do, but by saving the money on a slight dip in processor I was able to afford twice the hardrive and memory.
there is a $250 laptop I want to go with it, but that might be excessive.
I think I know this laptop's name already, just form the specs, but I refuse to comment until I've officially typed a journal entry on it.
In other news my first board meeting with the lit mag went well. My favorite story was the one accepted, though my least favorite is being shortlisted for another issue if certain edits are made.
I'm getting ready to register for spring, and excited about a few of the classes.
Mike Doughty concert is coming up, each day I fall deeper and deeper in love with his stuff.
The memorial for my Uncle is this Saturday, and I feel like a grown-up having planned it all by myself.
I entered a story in a contest that I should hear back about in a few weeks (though it always takes them longer then they originally anticipate).
Hopefully this week I'll send out another submission, the one to the lit mag that invited me to submit. :)
Okay enough about my trivial existence.
Oh and for those of you who are friends, and want to see my creative stuff, make sure you're signed in. I'm going to return to posting some early draft stuff, but strictly in friend-only view to avoid problems with sticky pre-publishing issues.
I think I'll show you all a second draft of a poem as soon as I type it up.

just finished watching an old (2001) documentary about Hell House, the original Christian 'haunted house', that at least a thousand others have based themselves off of. Instead of vampires and mad scientists, they show fake abortions and ravers. No, I'm not joking. For some visual aid, please consult - (abbreviated for humor and appropriateness).

http://somethingpositive.net/sp10042006.shtml
http://somethingpositive.net/sp10052006.shtml
http://somethingpositive.net/sp10062006.shtml
http://somethingpositive.net/sp10082006.shtml
http://somethingpositive.net/sp10132006.shtml

The director who did this was brilliant. No Michael Moore style tactics. No voice overs, mocking of the stupid, or what seemed to be biased recording. There was just  a camera watching these wackadoos scare heathens for the lord. As usual, the most terrifying thing was the truth, and watching this people so ill-informed go about trying to portray the sins of the world, seemed priceless.
The highlight of the film for me was either the ex-raver who didn't know the name of the date-rape drug, which he had supposedly seen people on, and compared it's use to taking too much NyQuil ( I hope he was referring to GHB). Or the argument between the two men about what color the pentagram would be painted. the one wanted to pain it white, while the other said that was ludicrous, it had to be painted white. The first questions the seconds authority, and the second came back with 'don't you remember that warlock a few years back gave us hell for the few white candles in occult scene. He said there ain't no white in dark magic.' - that's right grandpa, and there ain't no black in your churches. So they agree that the pentagram must be painted red. Then they flash to a few hours later, when the red on black pentagram is done, on it's actually the 6 pointed star of David, and no one has noticed.
Anyhow, well worth it you have an hour and a half to be scared out of your wits by southerners.

"I'm a big fan of your face."


True story.

Today I found a heart shaped freckle on my arm and decided that I am a fictional character. What real person has a heart shaped freckle on their body? There is no way. I'd always suspected that I was fictional, that my reality was nothing more then a poorly written book populated by cast-off characters from Neil Gaiman novels that were never written. Now, I have proof. 
Hours later Dark City came on TV.
Now I am watching I Heart Huckabees.

Miss JuJu-Voodoo-Tallulah-Bear came through surgery just fine.  She's a little sluggish and very affectionate, since she's high on kitty aspirin. Her Buddha belly has been shaved, but luckily she is so large that you can't tell unless she rolls onto her back.

My remote is somewhat broken, and it is extremely irritating. I can't select anything or move up up, down, left or right. So I'm only able to select channels the old fashion way, by best guess, and I can't access my DVR stuff. I tried changing the batteries, obviously if I'm typing in the present tense it was futile.

I began a purging of my belongings today, it felt cathartic and good. I threw out stuff I hadn't looked at in a year.
I found pictures from the last time i went to Hatteras. Pictures of deep-sea fishing with my uncle.

If I'm nothing but a fictional character then the good news is my life is more important then i ever thought it was. Now I wonder if I get to pick the author? I know you all think I would pick Neil, and I certainly wouldn't turn down a life penned by him. But lately i could use a good Tom Robbins novel, with a strong heroine a set of intriguing supporting characters, a greater sense of meaning.

In unrelated news, I have my first gig as a reader on the fiction board of the best lit mag in Philly. First board meeting this Wednesday.

Sisyphus in the Suburbs
Stephen Dunn

It was late and the wine had wet
an aridity he'd forgotten he had.
He could feel the evening
arching above the house,
a good black dome. No ledges,
he realized, tempted him.
The once-inviting abyss
was now just a view.

Sisyphus put another CD on
and stroked the cat.
His wife was in Bermuda
with her younger sister,
celebrating the death
of winter, and a debt paid.
Her missed her, and he did not.

He'd been mixing Janis Joplin
with Brahms, accountable now
to no one. The lights
from some long-desired festival
were not calling him.
No silent dog or calm ocean
made him fear the next moment.

But Sisyphus was amazed
how age sets in, how it just came
one day and stayed. And how far
away the past gets. His break
from the gods, just an episode now.

Tomorrow he'd brave the cold,
spireless mall, look for a gift.
He'd walk through the unappeasable
crowds as if some right thing
were findable and might be bestowed.


-----------------------------------------


later to find some applicable quote from The Wake. -'tm

last night on the el shuttle from 69th street to 40th street to catch the real el, my phone rang and it was my mother @11pm, which tells you that nothing good could come from that phone call.
My uncle died.
That's all I got folks.