Jersey du Jour: "Dapartures"

Jersey is definitely an interesting place to live. So I'll post a few things every now and again that sometimes make one go, "Only in Jersey!"

An interesting experience taking a cab recently late in the night. A young guy is in the back seat with me (a common practice of Jersey City drivers late night is to pick up more than one passenger and charge each of them. This tends to take unusually keen geographical skill, and I am luckily one of the last ones out, so I get to chat with the driver at the end.)...so, the young guy sitting in back with me asks if I "party" and sniffs. He gives me his number and asks me to call him if I ever need anything. "I got weed, too." This kid gets out and makes the driver promise to come back for him.

As we drive away, the driver asks, "He's trying to sell you drugs, yes? He's a drug dealer." Yes. Jersey du nuit...

The pic above is of the place I catch my bus at Port Authority. I love this typo.

Hot or Not? (for Nerds!)

Rube Goldberg

What say you about this inventor of the convoluted machine that performs a simple task?
One example is his self-operating napkin. There's also a good example from the Animaniacs: Wakko devises a doozy so he can order a pizza over the phone.

Hot or Not?
And you bitches know I'm not asking about his looks!
(Geez, the name "Rube" alone gives me an answer! But I'm not a woman of average proclivities...)

A Good Port

There was something like magic happening last night in downtown Manhattan. For the first time in I don't know how long, I felt completely in my skin and that my ship had sailed into the right port--had brought me to a new home after a spell of harsh seas and broken masts. A friendly port peopled by freaks as in love with quirky voices and weird instrumentation as I, people who huddled together to escape the rain and the cold, cozying up to a four-piece jazz band as if they were circling a campfire for warmth.

I had landed at my new favorite bar in Manhattan, The Ear Inn, the oldest working bar in NYC. It's part of the James Brown House (read the history). There resides the ghost of a sailor named Mickey, waiting for his ship to come in. In the 30s it was a speakeasy. And today they have homestyle food cheap, a reading series, and jazz that welcomes the likes of me (and the New Orleans diaspora) every Sunday night.

And there, I heard this AMAZING woman perform. Her name is Rachelle Garniez. Holy crap. She plays accordion too. I've always wondered where the female voices that had tons of character were these days--female singers who could do justice to a Tom Waits song. Rachelle is it. I think I am esthetically in love with this lady. She does these vaudeville shows too.

Her next show is coming up at Joe's Pub on Dec. 22. You should come with me!! (I'm talking to you, Erin Melina!)

PS: Jeremy Irons was there, totally digging on the music, especially our friend on the clarinet.

Potter's Field -- Right Here in NYC

Wow, I just learned that Washington Square Park and Bryant Park were both once potter's fields, burial grounds for those who couldn't afford proper burial, or the anonymous dead. (OK, I did learn this from Wikipedia, but that's usually relatively reliable, I think...)

So next time you NYU students drop acid and hang out in the park near campus, or you corporate types go ice skating next to the library, remember this: you're hanging out with dead people. Nameless dead people.

How Poltergeist. I wonder if bodies will ever erupt from the rink and break through the ice? Yeah, that will probably happen during the "rapture," when God's faithful servants get taken away in UFOs, leaving the rest of us sinners behind--we'll be Left Behind! Does that mean we will then rid ourselves of proselytizing and hateful hypocrisy? Which leads me to wonder: would that be God doing them or us the favor?

"Iron Man" Lives Again

Evidence that I spend WAY too much time at my job and with people from work (though I have to admit, so many of them are grade-A high quality--I cannot escape the fact that I heart them):

I did karaoke last night with work folk and defended my heavy metal chops on the microphone. I even have proof. My big boss took this highly unflattering picture of me with his cell phone. I believe I was singing Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" at the time. (You know, "Iron Man" is actually a really shitty song for karaoke--it's mostly guitar solos, but it is totally easy to sing. Besides, it always causes me to think about the awesome cover The Cardigans do of it. Plusses and minuses...life's a series of 'em.)


Earlier in the night, I threw the gauntlet down with an eerily accurate rendition of "Rock You Like a Hurricane." ( I sang really "lou-T," like a balding German rocker.) Then my coworker punk rock Patty and I sang "Cum on Feel the Noize," in honor of Quiet Riot's late lead singer, Kevin Dubrow. (He was so young--only in his 50s. That's becoming younger and younger to me every day.)

I'll be 36 on December 9, a day of birth I share with some real gems: John Cassavettes, John Malkovich and Donnie Osmond, to name a few.

PS: another sign that I work too much--I just got home from work at midnight on a Friday. Awesome! But I can't lie: I've been leaving on time with great regularity lately. So hey, consider me blessed: I have a job and I like the people I work with and I am off on time more frequently than not. And they don't mind if I throw cursing tantrums where I nearly blow the joint up with my massive F-bombs.

Just Say No to Iowa

So, I have to shave my ambition down just a bit. The Writers' Workshop at Iowa is dropping off my list. I'm finding after becoming more acquainted with other programs that Iowa isn't in my top 3 anymore. Also, they require a financial aid form like now and I don't even have last year's taxes done yet. And, they recommend GRE scores for funding. Another strike against me. Fuck standardized tests, yo.

I'd rather be drinking, like I was for this Halloween costume party at work: I was Sante Kimes, famed grifter who had a disgusting affair with her son. And killed people for real estate cash. A real charmer. Total freak. Quite a stretch for me, as I guess you would imagine. Louche and thirsty.


Later that night, I transformed into Loretta Lynn. I'll find a pic and post it eventually. Picture: the same wig, down, and a Pepto pink Miss Rodeo USA getup. It was fucking awesome.

Wow. An Internet Connection.

Howdy to anyone who still reads my blog (or tries to)!

First: I'm thankful you keep trying. Second: an explanation of my recent absence. I mean, not that I've ever been prolific on this thing. But currently, I've had a bitch of a time finding a reliable internet connection that wasn't at work--and I do my best to get the hell out of work as quickly as I can these days. There it is. Nothing much I can do about that until I get my own place, I think.

Do you want to hear about the coolest things that have happened in my absence? Of course you do.


1. I saw PJ Harvey at the Beacon Theater touring for her latest (totally uncharacteristically melancholy) record White Chalk, which is totally awesome. (Dude, the guys from Dirty Three are guesting on this album.) She played the entire show solo, jumping between instruments. On one song, she even used a metronome for percussion. How HOT is that? She did her rock-out songs from other albums with just a guitar or just a guitar and drum machine. She looked so AWESOME wearing that crazy puffy-sleeved Victorian dress and playing guitar so fiercely. Damn, it was amazing. This album is so contemplative, so creepy, so GOOD. Buy it, buy it! (Do you know she is also a sculptor? I love her.)

2. I'm applying to MFA poetry programs and my former professor John Biguenet is writing me a recommendation--and his play Rising Water, about a couple during Katrina, has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize! SO cool.

3. I've gone crazy over the Elvis Costello song "Blame It on Cain" from the My Aim Is True record from 1977. I will make you a mix CD if you ask me. I'm itching to do that for someone.

4. Also, I'm having a bit of an affair with the latest Interpol record, Our Love to Admire. There's a rumor that they've moved to Jersey City. I plan to stalk them and force them to talk to me about literature and James Bond movies. And drink Scotch. Another obsession right now. Or Tullamore Dew.

5. I've gained an appreciation of tattoos--heretofore unappreciated. I never thought so before, but yeah, they're kind of hot.

The Interloper

While touring one of Natchez, Mississippi's most "fun" cemeteries, a fox ran into my frame as I was snapping away at these unusual flowers.

Secret Messages

So I keep hearing Tom Waits' "Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis" at random points lately. (Just now, as I was about to shut the computer down, it came on as the new DJ came on for his shift on WWOZ, New Orleans' Own.) The version by Neko Case or the man himself. What kind of meaning can I squeeze out of that?

All Tardied Up Part 2: The Fabulous Jersey Shore

Hear me out. I'm utterly earnest in this: The Jersey Shore is truly a fabulous place to spend the summer -- and spend it we did. Donna and I got in her little orange 1973 SuperBeetle and headed down to Sandy Hook, Point Pleasant (the cleaner, Jersey version of Coney Island--you can get your palm read on the boardwalk, watch movies on the beach, visit the aquarium, after an awesome day of swimming in turquoise waters--believe it! [Sorry, no pics: too busy having an ultra awesome time!]) and Island Beach State Park at the slightest provocation. I have to say, 2007 was an awesome year for the beach.



ON THE DRIVE
You can get umbrellas, tchotchkes of all sorts, etc., etc. on the road to Sandy Hook. Sadly, we didn't buy this Ladypirate and her pet Monkeyboy, who resembles Eddie Munster. A bargain at 20 bucks--now I'm kicking myself! So, what I'm trying to figure out is if he's handing her LOOT or BOOZE. Either way, he's handy!








THE CLAM HUT
Sandy Hook is the best, though, because we always would end the day by hunting out the Clam Hut, and our favorite raw bar-man, BK, who is not only a gifted conversationalist and host, but also has great taste in music. We never want the normal menu, so we can hang out with BK for the whole night and chat. (Sorry this post has taken forever to go up, BK!) He even played the record by the dude who sang "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch," who is his pal and totally sounds like Lux Interior. I forgot the name of the band, though! It's something like Lounge-a...something. I'm a failure at remembering names. But I'm rich in aphorisms about failure...for example: "Success is just a shitload of failure warmed over." And "Success eventually follows all those grand fuck-ups." Yeah. Anyway, back to the beach adventure...






ON THE WAY HOME
You get ice cream. From the Napoli Brothers or from the illustrious DQ (the first job I ever had at the tender age of 14--so I have a soft spot for it). Mmmmmm, Dilly Bar! And those little punks better not fuck up my blizzard--I know the tricks. (And did you know the DQ made CAKES?! I had no idea till we stopped at this one near Sandy Hook.)





I HEART THE JERSEY SHORE!
And don't forget to stop at the superhuge rest stops named after American presidents. They have Nathan's Hot Dogs! And Starbucks, if you go in for that corporate kind of shit.

All Tardied Up: Mmmm...Mermaidy!

I've done fun things this summer when I haven't been working, but I haven't put them on my blog. So, I shall do my best to try to make that up.
Numero Uno: The Mermaid Parade
My awesome friend Erin Melina told me when she learned I was moving to NYC that I needed to pay a visit to Coney Island in the summer months and behold the glory that is the Mermaid parade. She was oh so right. And this year I had the great fortune to be in the very same Erin Melina's company. She was a goddess of the sea. Here are a few snaps of the glorious day in June at one of my favorite spots in the whole wide world.



And here's an awesome guy dressed as a Sea Monkey!

And let's not forget THIS GUY! (I also love the face on the dude behind him.)

Sometimes New York really is one big magic show.

The Nation Mourns...and My Dreams Are Dashed!

I just got the tragic news this week that the Weekly World News is about to close up shop. I'd always had fantasies as a college student of writing for them. Alien babies, Sasquatch in love, mutant children hiding out in caves...all from the "world's only reliable newspaper." My friend in college knew a guy who posed as a dwarf in love with a giant woman for the WWN. Not surprisingly, he was neither a dwarf nor did he know the woman in question. The WWN is/was so over the top it was one of the most entertaining rags ever. In truth, you could rely on its "news"--you always knew what you were getting: you always knew you'd see the worst Photoshopping ever; you always knew you'd read about literally in-credible stories of at least one supernatural event/creature; you always knew you'd have something to laugh about that you would repeat to your friends later. WWN created a "humor community" that had a stable of "reliable" parameters and touchstones, common language and values--if you could call them that. I don't think The Onion ("America's Finest News Source") would be what it is without the WWN. Would Stephen Colbert be as popular? Would The Daily Show?

I raise my glass to the finest in fake news as it breathes its last. Someone at work told me they saw one last copy in a Rite Aid--I'll have to run out and try to beat the masses that must be clamoring to get at it! Wish me luck!

What Is It?

I found this taxidermied wonder on the streets of Jersey City, out for the trash.

Separated at Birth?

Quentin Tarantino. Lady Elaine Fairchilde.

Listen to the sound clip on this page to get a taste of what Lady Elaine is cookin'!

"I Went to Alabama..."

Doubt

One of my favorite radio shows these days is "Speaking of Faith" on NPR. The other week the theme was Doubt. I love this subject on the subject of spirituality. Especially since we will never be able to empirically prove anything relating to faith. Though there is a scientific argument that says Einstein's Theory of Relativity supports the concept of reincarnation. I haven't read this entire story, but a friend at my meditation class was telling me about it after we had a long talk on a street corner about how we are supposed to distinguish reality from illusion in Buddhism, which led us to the thought that some aspects of Buddhism [for example, karma] only working if you have faith in reincarnation, which led us to how can you prove something like that, at which point Rickie gently pointed out that he'd read that the 3rd Theory of Relativity supports it. Interesting. I love Sundays.

Anyway, Doubt. It has a long history in faith. I mean, what good is untested faith? This is a subject I've been thinking a lot about lately. But the fact that this agnostic poet wrote an entire book about it -- across the board, covering Christianity, Islam, Buddhism (if you can truly call Buddhism faith, another subject that came up on the street corner. It's more like philosophy. Philosophy that takes your spiritual and psychological life into account. Holistic philosophy, if you will.).

Anyway, check out what Jennifer Michael Hecht has to say about the doubters throughout history and in a number of faiths. Truly interesting.

http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/doubt/index.shtml

All Is Lost at St. Agnes Academy

A Post in Two Parts
1.
A friend at work said her boyfriend wanted to be worshipped in statuette form. Preferably golden. I said his religion should be called Patrolicism, since his name is Patrick. As payment for coining the term, I get bi-annual rites dedicated to me. These rites would be celebrated much like the equinox, twice a year. They'd be like St. Lucy's Feast celebrations. In the spring, look ahead to what your activities and fruitfulness bring. In the winter, celebrate clarity and light--on my birthday, four days before St. Lucy's Feast Day.

This celebration will be called Candulation.

2.
This picture makes me think of a disaster about to happen at an all-girls school. One girl (let's call her Mathilda) has a crush on her female teacher (named Claire) and is going to surprise Ms. Claire by bringing tea to the teacher's room wearing a candle wreath around her head. To her shock, Lady Claire is frolicking under the sheets with the gardener (Jorge)! Horrors! Mathilda convulses in teenage agony. The wreath tips from her head and ignites the velvet drapes, and all is lost at St. Agnes Academy! Save yourselves, girls! Save yourselves! But Mathilda stays where she is. Her heart has already been broken. What else is there to live for now? All of 15, she lets the flames lick her body: her first, last and only lover.

Silly Book Poll

I'm always looking for things to put on my reading list. If any of y'all answer even one of these questions, I will be overjoyed. I'm going to answer some right now, and some later.

1. One book that you would recommend be read by everyone? Being There by Jerzy Kosinski
2. One book you have read more than once? The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
3. One book you would want on a desert island? The Quiet American by Graham Greene
4. One book that made you laugh?
5. One book that made you cry? Neon Vernacular by Yusef Komunyakaa
6. One book you could not finish? Woman in the Dunes
7. One book you loved as a child? Whistle for Willie
8. One book you are currently reading? The White Album by Joan Didion and The End by Fannie Howe
9. One book you have been meaning to read? Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Best 99 Cent Store Ever!

I love when awesome pranks are called Public Art.




http://www.genartpulse.com/archives/2007/04/90210h_hell_no.php#001804

Published!

(The Old Beehive Living Quarters, Paulus Hook, Jersey City)

Look under poetry, here: www.burrowmag.com.

It's a new magazine out of sweet-ass Brooklyn. If you look back, those haiku had origins right here on this sweet-ass blog. And all right, I know, the plural form of haiku is haiku, not haikus. Forgive me.

Hallelujah. I've broken my publication fast. Stay tuned, more to come.

Reading: Richard Wright's Haiku. Delectable accidental find in the Mid-Manhattan stacks. Libraries = love.

Urban Homesick Blues

Today I miss New Orleans. My friend Mead called me to tell me that on his way to work this morning he saw a transvestite getting hassled by a cop. The hassle part wasn't so nice to hear, but it's always comforting to know that drag queens will always be in the quarter, and so will silly vampire people and book fiends and record collectors and Tennessee Williams fanatics and street corner philosophers and musicians, and jasmine and rot on the air.

I'm a little homesick.

Words in the Condo Ghetto

The photo above is what's going on on the waterfront of Jersey City. I call it the Condo Ghetto, or alternately the Condo Jungle. One of the things I love most about Jersey is its waterfront. I mean, really, the illicit, free view you get of the low tip of Manhattan is amazing and at times breathtaking. And part of it is getting clogged by blocks and blocks of these trash-can condos in the making. It's crazy to watch these things go up: all plywood and sheets of insulation that look like nothing more than cardboard--and these are going to go for nearly $1 million! So many conversations I've had about how and why. Who will move in? How many millionaires do we really have? And why, if you're a millionaire, would you want to live in a cheaply made condo? Some say it's corporations creating their own market, or housing for their employees, or it's for aging baby boomers who want to get closer to the action and not have a rambling house to care for. I'm sure a little more news and periodical reading would help me answer these questions. But my time is currently being spent reading books.

Currently on the agenda: Darkness Visible by William Styron, How to Solve Our Human Problems: The Four Noble Truths by Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, and Neon Vernacular by Yusef Komunyakaa. Believe me, this is a combo that packs a punch. Almost makes me feel like I'm in college again. I loved the synchronicity that would take place between classes randomly selected; at some point their messages and readings would naturally complement one another, counter each other's arguments, elucidate and answer questions that were raised by the others. So, how's that working here, in my own private university?

The William Styron book has been on my list for ages. A short volume, it was handed to me by my friend Matthew at a diner after us not seeing each other for more than a year. The subtitle: A Memoir of Madness. It's about Styron's (who recently passed away just a few months back) struggle with depression. It lays bare the social taboo of suicidal thoughts and self-doubt. He doubts his own talent when he's being given Prix Mondial Cino del Luca, a literary prize, in Paris. It's a Persephone journey through that darkness. I love that title, too, Darkness Visible. It's wonderful, considering the nature of depression, so fleeting yet consistent, so intangible, and our desire to ignore it. A brave book, surely. And an inspiration too, this book he wrote because he realized people were responding to an op-ed piece he wrote for the New York Times about the subject, feeling as if they were coming out of a "closet," as it were, of hiding their depression. It gave people courage. The idea turned into a Vanity Fair piece, then this book.

And how does that relate to my Buddhist study, How to Solve Our Human Problems? Well, these are principles for living. Buddhisms whole premise is to eliminate suffering. I wonder what Styron would've done had he found Buddhism and meditation? Possibly nothing, but I have to say I'm finding it to be a wonderful thing. It's good for self-esteem; it's good for compassion. But the main way I'm seeing these two relate, at least today, is the way in which they both help people, and were written for that express purpose. And this goes back to the way I'm beginning to feel about the goal of my writing. I think back to Dorothy Allison frequently: Speak, and make your world palpable to others (as Styron does; as Allison does). It's the transformative nature of literature. You can take difficult experiences and not only use it to help and transform yourself, but give others the courage to do so.

Which leads me to inspiration, something to aspire to. Yusef Komunyakaa. I have not been affected by poetry this much in years. Komunyakaa is brilliant. An African-American from Bogalusa, Louisiana, once a hotbed of Klan activity, he's also a Vietnam veteran. He translates what his eyes have seen and his heart has traversed, and has, I'm not afraid to admit, moved me to tears with his work. It speaks to the same place I'm trying to speak to with my work. One example of the power of his words, as he describes returning home in a way that hit the bulls-eye to my own feeling about returning to my small, rural Southern towns that I never felt I belonged to:
I am back here, interfaced
With a dead phosphorescence;
The whole town smells
Like the world's oldest anger.

That's something that sits on my tongue and dissolves slowly.

Dispatches from the Front

(Lebanon Junction, Kentucky. Thanksgiving 2006. Near my birthplace, Fort Knox)

I've been thinking about how a cover letter to a literary magazine should be like an artists' statement. Maybe I should try stating what my goals are with the stuff I'm writing. All of my poems, more or less, I am seeing as emotional journalism--dispatches from my heart, me out here on the front lines, dodging bullets, lobbing grenades, all in matters of my heart and soul.

So that's my new goal: briefly stated when I send anything out. Perhaps it'll help with acceptance. I don't my letters so far have really helped any editors or readers get to know me. I've always preferred to let the work speak for itself. But hey, who doesn't need a little help whereever they can get it? Why not turn on the charm when it comes to presenting myself on the page? I am better on paper--I just need to find a way to smile on paper and shake a hand on paper. Yeah, I think it will help.

And I'll post some of my emotional reportage soon; the likes of which have been rejected by such magazines as Black Warrior Review and Crazyhorse. Still so many more to hit up. Why does the submission process take so damn long? I'll just keep my post, watching the field for enemy fire, and blast out a few more shots of my own to let them know I'm still alive.

The Hooha Monologues

I heard on NPR that the great state of Florida actually changed the name of Eve Ensler's play to the above atrocity. It was offensive to someone who actually has a vagina--I'm not afraid to say it--and she couldn't stand even seeing the word. Wow. Sort of defeats the purpose of the whole thing, huh? Say it loud: You've got vag and you're proud! I do. Ask anyone.

We're All in the Same (Striving) Gang

Pondering what makes a life meaningful, useful, profitable I come to the conclusion that a lot of us are searching for more and as we watch the market praise and benefit absolute crap over and over again, we wonder if we'll ever be able to make a living trying to life ourselves out of the crap.

I'm speaking of those of us who are wishing for an intelligent community that could publish something meaningful to all of us. Why don't we have the market power? Are we all too cheap to invest in the things we hold dear and keep carping about there being a lack of in American culture?

It would be nice to care more about community and culture and the quality of life -- internally than a paycheck. I for one am usually afraid of being poor again. I want a comfortable life, but not at the expense of missing out on life.

I want to write about people doing great things, specifically women, and I think I can find a place that will want to pay me to do that. But right now that isn't happening. I'm trying to narrow things down, find my avenues to something that can be profitable and rewarding. I want to honor craft and others and history and respect humanity at the same time. But you know what is tiring me most? People telling me it can't be done. I believe it can. And I feel like I can at least try on a small scale for some success at this.

I am not alone in this. A lot of people want this. And I think I've long known that satisfaction and happiness for me lie in the striving itself, not the profit you make from it. It is an emotional profit, the satisfaction of a useful life, that you are doing something meaningful -- at least to yourself. It think that's really all I want. And I can do that in many ways. I just want to make sure I don't starve in the process, or that others don't.

The idea that we're all in this together give me hope and strength. I'm one of those people who believes in the power of positive thought, the power of the heart, and the fact that if we think these things together they can change the world, because that's energy, and that's what every fiber of our being is made of. Energy. Thought energy. Heart energy.

And some blood, sweat and tears, as the phrase goes. I've come to the conclusion that you get dragged through no matter what you choose to do with yourself -- why not make it something meaningful? Life will always have hard moments. I risk being Pollyanna about things, but I have heard stories of people who keep believing through droughts of mind and heart, and come out of it with exactly what they envisioned. If we can display that patience, maybe it'll come.

Affairs that are public: Like keeping women healthy and alive and literate

I just corresponded with my zupafantastic friend Dave (see I Just Wanna Be a Tugboat Captain) about ladies in the Peace Corps. He spent time in Haiti and the Dominican Republic and started a public health clinic down there. He's a great source of inspiration, and a pretty amazing friend. You should look at his blog and become as smitten with him as everyone who meets him in the flesh is.

I have so much brewing in my head right now--particularly about being a useful human being. My job is starting to provide an opportunity for me to do that, if I work it the right way. We have a great section of the company called Public Affairs, and they work on a few promotions a year, including one called End Violence Against Women, then there's one on Breast Cancer Awareness, Every Woman Counts (that's getting women to vote--this year it's going to be awesome!). So here I think I'll be able to write and do the good that I hope to do, and hopefully, it can lead to other things too.

In the meantime, I'm making my way across cyberia and finding organizations that shine a light inside and NEED PRESS and I think I should be one to provide it. This is one of the most amazing groups: Women Without Borders, they're all about ending violence against women too.

God, my insides feel like a Bob Dylan song: I feel reborn with purpose, and think I am figuring out that I have a tool that will get me closer to my goals.

Vietnamese

One thing I LOOOOOOOVVVEEE about Jersey City is the food. Donna and I had this amazing beef we cooked at our table and wrapped in rice paper. This is the sauce I would love to bathe in.

I am boring. I am growing up.

Photo: Grand Cayman, Xmas 2006, on a boat with Donna's dad. It was beautiful.

Wormholes abound in the blogosphere, and I fell into one in October, National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, when I started writing a blog for my job. Just facts and news and events and stuff. Weird part is, I was most inspired to do it because my aunt recently went through a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, but I didn't even tell her about it. She had complications with the surgery and was really depressed, and I felt like it would be weirdly opportunistic to start talking about how I'm doing this blog and she was my inspiration when I haven't even spoken with her in ages. I didn't want to be self-promoting, self-congratulatory, if that makes any sense at all. I just wanted to tell her I loved her and that I was thinking of her. This is when you feel like you could do so much more in your life. Go the extra mile. Stop thinking about yourself and how you can improve your life, but how you can be useful somehow to humanity.

Maybe it's my age. Maybe it was reading all those stories of people fighting this awful, mysterious thing that nobody can get rid of. I've gone back and forth in my life between being numb and being as "sensitive as an eye" (a line from a Margaret Atwood poem that I first read as a freshman in college and has never left me). No surprise that dumb and numb are almost the same word. You feel dumb, stunned by the world, when you encounter awful things. And of course, I'm like most New Yorkers and in therapy and exploring my numbness and trying to learn how to surf the swells of heightened sensitivity and the blackouts of numbness like so many other creative, feeling people.

Excuse me if I feel a tad confessional today.

In the time that I have been on hiatus on this blog, I've turned 35. It's a milestone. It's a marker. One that is making me ask, yet again, but with more intensity: What are you doing with your life?

Well, for one thing: I'm learning how to deal with security.

For those who don't know: I didn't stay an entire year in one school until 6th grade. And I think from the time I was 5, I didn't see my parents much. I remember a lot of wood paneling and black and white tvs, transistor radios and books, books and more books. No friends, but books, yes. Small Louisiana towns, punctuated by short stints back in Iowa. Plantations and pigs. Humidity and stockyards. Loneliness and family. Kinda weird New Orleans became home; Louisiana was so lonely for me as a kid. It's like I got to start all over when I hit New Orleans, though. New Orleans is like the Vatican: It deserves its own borders. It's like no other place in the world.

You know, my background isn't that strange. It's not like I grew up on the streets or had a heroin addiction at the age of 10. But it was still pretty hard to grapple with. Sometimes I'm shocked I don't believe unicorns exist. Hmmm...or do I? I've met a few unicorns in my life. You know the Margaret Cho bit where she talks about meeting a good-looking, nice, straight, available guy and asks him "Are you a unicorn?" I've been lucky enough to meet some unicorns in my time. But they're different: they're magical humans whose existence gives me hope.

35 years old. Means it's time to grow into myself. I was such an old kid. And after I hit college, I kind of subconsciously decided to get that youth back. Actually, it happened after I graduated and my first major relationship disintegrated. I did a typical thing: fell in love with the bottle, and all the accompanying drugs and late nights. OK, bad-girl youth covered. Now, meaningful life. Time to pursue that. Time to do the "dream following." Maybe I need to buy a dream catcher. Ha.

Well, this is probably the most I've ever said about myself on this freaking blog. What's happening? When you turn 35 does the bullshit start to evaporate? Because I feel like I've surrounded myself with a lot of bullshit in the last few years of my life. Try 10. I think it's time to admit I get depressed about my past and live in it for periods that last far too long. Maybe that's the only way to get over it. You know how Christians talk about the times you turn your back on your faith to find it again. Then you know what's out there, you know what life is like without it. You lose your faith to find it again. I feel like I've lost myself several times, but some things are still here. I've returned to writing. I quit it for years. Now I'm writing again. I think that may be the only thing that can truly help me do that growing into a meaningful life I'm talking about. Because that's how I grew up: books, books, journals, diaries. That's me.

When I started writing again, it truly was as if I got back in touch with a really old friend I didn't even know I'd missed. Me. I missed myself. We used to be really good friends. Well, now we're reacquainted. It's not like it's not hard. Movies never show the boring times. Jack Kerouac was an idiot--shambling after people who never yawn or say boring things. No wonder he was an alcoholic. That's not life. I shambled after that too, but you know what, yawning isn't a bad thing. Quiet gives you time to figure things out, to evaluate, to know what's happening. You can't burn, burn into the night your whole freaking life.

I am boring. But sometimes I make some interesting discoveries. That's what I want to share. And even boredom has a rhythm. Breathing has a rhythm, and that NEVER ends until you do. So, the song of life beats on every day of your life. I want to make it my job to hear that song: Song of the yawns and the blood flowing, the breathing, and I hope that it will unveil something to me. In the noticing, I think it will. Start walking, follow feet. At the end of it, I'm bound to find a grown-up.