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I was on gchat with Max earlier today.

“Wanna get coffee?” is what i said to him. He said he was blogging. Then he could get coffee. It reminded me of this blog. Of the feeling you get when you blog. I think it’s what Virgina Woolf was talking about when she wrote A Room of One’s Own. It is that room for 21st century folks who weren’t born into money.

Tying bricks to your arms and legs and walking into a river is the inverse of the problem that Ariel had in The Little Mermaid. I guess it cost both of them, Virginia and Ariel, their voices. But If Ursula was Ariel’s sea witch, then who was Virginia’s land witch? The only person who can answer that is Walt Disney. Since he is deceased, I am going to ask this nun, Sister Dominica, my Aunt’s best friend, who passed away in her sleep on Thursday if she could talk to Walt about it.

It’s about knowing the right people.

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It was cold all night. I left my window open because my radiator is a temperature dominatrix and I like to let a window be a safe word.

I want to try a different coffee shop today in an effort to try a different life.  Maybe not even get a soy latte.  I heard there was a place that sold chicory coffee near me.

When I was moving away from Michigan, I had no specific plans or goals.  I gave myself two options.  New York City or New Orleans. Michigan doesn’t have the word “New” in it, so I knew i had to go somewhere that did.  I had visited New York City once before to perform a show at the Guggenheim. Sounds fancy, but we stayed at a YMCA in bunk beds and I got so drunk at an Irish Pub I woke up and found more than one tampon inside of me.  I guess that was the clincher.  I chose New York.

There’s a picture of Judy Garland in my bedroom and a calendar I made so I could give myself stickers for everyday i do a p90x work-out.

I made my bed this morning. I do that now in New York.

When I was little,  my Aunt Pat gave me a a teddy bear dressed in a nurse’s uniform.  I looked at it and saw some kind of future.  I don’t mean that I explicitly thought I would become a teddy bear nurse or even a nurse, but that for some reason, i felt like a stuffed animal in an employer uniform was a weird hint. Aunt Pat was the only woman in my family who had a job.  My mom, Aunt Chris, and Aunt Ruth were all homemakers.  Aunt Jo was a nun, and that just felt like she was a different gender than the rest of the world, and that that was a job, and that  job meant having short grey hair, singing way louder than other people at church, and joyously playing Kings In The Corner with me and Granddad on Thanksgiving.

When you’re a kid, people want to know what you want to be when you grow up.  Given my options, I obviously wanted to be a nun.

(I think it’s important to note that a subletter in my apartment who does a lot of coke is doing what sounds like filing his nails really really fast in the room next door to mine.)

I’m not a nun. And I’m grown up.  I’m an artist who accidentally took the vow of poverty.

The difference between taking the vow of poverty as a clergy member and accidentally taking the vow of poverty as an artist, is that, as a clergy member, you get to make up a meager budget that covers all of your basic needs.  Rome pays for it.  Nothing extravagant.  Shelter. Medical. Food. Utilities. Car. Gas. Stuff like that.  You work related to what you specialized in, medical, administrative, etc. in the context of your spiritual practice.

Rome doesn’t pay for my art.

But here I am dressed as an elderly teddy bear. Reading a monologue at an art party. a few years ago.

I’m on a brunch-everyday kick. With Becca. Today, I cut the stalks off the greens.  De-boned them.  It’s as close as I’ll get to being a butcher.  When i was a bartender at the Dive Bar, the neighborhood butcher used to come in during the afternoon, get totally hammered, and then go back to the chopping block.  I had to ask myself whether or not I was responsible for the finger I imagined he would sever. When you’re 23 and you’re hired because you’re cute and the sight of you inspires liquor purchase, who should you protect at the bar?

One afternoon, he brought me a steak he had just cut and seared.  It was so good.

I’ve been working in a law office for the last weak and a half. And I will tell you what. I get why a lot of straight white guys don’t know how to dance that well.

When you sit at a desk all day long collecting symptoms for carpal tunnel syndrome and cracking your knuckles and saying please hold and using your hand to make sure the back of your skirt isn’t giving anybody a butt show while you lead a two-man parade to a leather couch, you start forgetting that your life isn’t about “holding down the fort.”  it takes you approximately one hour to forget.

this week I am that frozen skull flag.

But next week I am both of those little blondes. cause I get to work from my studio.

1. my makeup.

2. some hairbrushing.

3. half of a cold stove-cooked cheeseburger from last night.

DESIRE, ladies and gentlemen.

since it’s my birthday month, I’m gonna talk about what I want.  today I’m talking objects.  But stay tuned for mystical and title-based desires.

I take desire requests.  topically.

1. a used bicyle. and a bike lock.

I’ve been riding double as bitch on a one-man bike for a  couple months,  and as much as I feel like I’ve scored a free ticket to Six Flags when pot holes bounce my crotch on Flushing Avenue, I do enjoy my own set of pedals and some leverage.

2. a refurbished computer.

In April, I sat down for a little coffee and a little work with Jess and Emily.  Two laptops. Three totally-worth-it four dollar hot espresso drinks.  one table.

a paper cup. the back of my wrist.  an impact. an explosion.  a devastated mother board.

and so ended my four year relationship with my macbook pro.  and so thrust to the fore my romance with the spiral notebook.  but you can’t fit a garage band into a spiral notebook the way you can an aluminum notebook.

thus, a birthday wish was born. and that toothless mug is the father.

3.  a commercial-grade garment rack.

A couple weeks ago, I was at a tantric sex workshop in an office building in Grammercy. Barbara Carrellas was coaching me and twenty nine other folks through a  “breathgasm.” So as you can imagine, everybody in the room was differently placed on a matrix of screaming, crying, laughing, feeling frigid and getting premature rigamortis of the hands.  We took a lunch break afterward and this text from Murphy appeared on my phone (shown). A two year long fantasy-come-true.  A studio space of my own. I feel like a Woolf.  And I’ll tell you why–all that breathgasmic howling.

So now I have a studio to work from. and i’m really excited about separating home and work.  I honestly don’t know who would be church and who would be state in that relationship. but. I pledge allegiance to the fact that I need a place to hang and arrange costumes in a compositional sort of way.

Today there was an accident on my street. It took me a while to figure it out. I noticed a really deep hole in the dirt next to the sidewalk on Bushwick Ave and my mother thought to myself, “somebody’s gonna fall in there and get hurt.” Then i saw a bunch of snaggle tooth rod iron fence pieces lying on the ground. I didn’t really think anything of it because I know where I live and I know what it looks like around here. pretty snaggle tooth. Then i saw a white cargo van parked in the dirt near the mom hole. I saw a crowd of people. I was passing the scene, just focused on getting to the deli with the seltzer. schweppes. it was a thousand degrees outside and it was a thousand degrees in my apartment that i had just slept in all night and i knew both the deli and the seltzer would have central air conditioning. i wasn’t raised with a window unit.

after i passed the hole and the van, I looked behind me, and it was the pool of blood that finally had its way with my powers of deduction. a pool of blood coming from the tire. like the van was bleeding. the van was the only body i saw. and some nervous, pacing people’s bodies that seemed uninvolved directly in the accident. they were sweating. but we all were. there was a pool of sweat on my mattress this morning. like my egyptian cotton sheets were sweating. there’s an ink stain on them from when jim leija left a pen on my bed. there’s a blood stain on them from when god decided to give me the kind of private parts i have. and have always had. and probably will have forever.

you can’t really do anything when you see an accident except for have feelings about mortality.

during all of this, i was walking with becca and i thought she should probably start wearing a helmet. cause she rides her bike a lot. but i also felt real fuck a helmet. part of what’s thrilling about riding a bike is treating it like it’s a foot crank convertible. can you imagine wearing a helmet in a convertible? can you imagine wearing a seat belt on your throat?

what’s more dangerous? a head injury or never feeling the way Leonardo Dicaprio felt when he took the mermaid position on the Titanic and screamed “i’m the king of the world?”

I was president of a twenty two person vegan co-op in Ann Arbor, MI called Black Elk and come December, we had this holiday-sensitive gift-exchange activity called Secret Satan.  It’s just like Secret Santa but with a touch of Rosemary’s Baby thrown in for the oversensitive and ironic radical Big Ten college sect.  My Secret Satan, Caroline, surprised me with a skirt she made out of a Sesame Street pillowcase.

As I was looking for something to perform in for June’s Our Hit Parade, I found the skirt in my plastic china town bag full of coconut bras and old stripper clothes.  Nobody could have known this back in 2004, because we all had some serious style issues at the time, but i discovered that it makes a better dress than it does a skirt.

Desperate to cash in on this discovery, I made it my business to think about what pillowcases and Daddy’s have in common.

I don’t know what I discovered, but please note that Columbus thought America was India.

I didn’t kill anybody to sing this song though.

Some of you will recognize this format and some of you won’t– the beauty and terror of secrets.