dark moon diary

cantthinkofanythingclever

God, the dark moon has been a pain in my ass lately! I’m pretty sure it has at least a little something to do with the fact I have my period. I mean, it’s supposed to be a good thing when you menstruate with the dark moon, but in my opinion it’s a bit overwhelming. All that dark moon angst plus PMS equals.... well, it my case, apparently it equals nightmares, because last night I had a bad one. You know the one I’m talking about. The one where your brain somehow gets a hold of every deep, dark fear your soul possesses and then mercilessly combines them all with whatever emotional process you’re having the most difficulty working through, resulting in the type of horrific image that makes you say “Fuck!!! Did that really come out of me?”

Yup, it was a bad one. So bad I had to wake my boyfriend up and even after he had done his ultimate best to calm me down, stroking my hair, telling me it would be okay, checking every room and closet to make sure no one was in them because I thought I heard someone typing on our computer but it turned to just be the cat munching on cat food, I still couldn’t sleep and had to watch a stupid Adam Sandler movie and then talk about what the dream meant for me emotionally.

Seriously, be glad you’re not my boyfriend.

I did eventually manage to fall back asleep. Right around the time that the sun was coming up and my alarm was about to go off anyway, that’s when I finally managed to fall back asleep. But you know what, in the end, it was fine. I’ve always been quick to get really bent out of shape over a nightmare or a creepy image. I’ve always let these things in more than I should. I’ve let them affect me, and my life and the things that I love. But last night before I was falling asleep, I was telling my boyfriend that I wasn’t scared anymore, that my life was beautiful and that I (finally) felt I had nothing to be scared of. And maybe a month ago, I would have had that nightmare and seen it as some cruel trick from some malevolent higher power like, “Haha, you think you’re happy? I’ll show you!”, but this time around I just didn’t feel like it. I mean, I just really didn’t want to believe that that was the case. So, I didn’t.

I woke up this morning (approximately fifteen minutes after I had fallen asleep) and my life wasn’t a nightmare. I was still inside my beautiful apartment, the same apartment that I had just spent the weekend taking pictures and making food and entertaining guests and laying in bed watching movies with the kitties in. I was still healthy and happy and so, so fortunate. And even though it was the dark moon at night, it was still a gorgeous sunny morning.

love always

I'm back....again

So, you may have noticed that I've been posting here again. Or perhaps you didn't because I oh-so-cleverly changed the date on all of my posts to reflect the date they were actually posted. Allow me to explain.
Remember when I wrote that goodbye post, about how I had outgrown this space and would never post here again, etc, etc? Well, I pulled a Kid Cudi and changed my mind. Having a new and different blog was great, but it wasn't what I thought it would be. I thought it would be a place where I could seamlessly blend my love of food, fashion, travel, astrology, foul language, feminism and bathroom humor into one big, exquisite blog-thing that would be an exact representation of me in my purest form. What actually happened was kind of like what happens when you blend all your paints together or mix all the food on your plate. It became brown and murky and impossible to make out even one tiny detail. More importantly, I learned that I don't want to see a representation of me in my purest form. I don't want to blend all those things together. Frankly, some of those things don't belong together.
So in the interest of keeping the food posts appetizing and the personal posts as raw and honest and well, ok, vulgar as possible, I've decided to separate the two (hence the moving of old posts from that blog, to this one). So here at infinite gratitude you can basically read my diary with some sparkly pictures thrown in for good measure and over at bitter honey you can catch a glimpse of the more civilised aspects of my life (food, culture, etc.). Will the two occasionally intersect? I'm sure of it. But I think there's a boundary. You don't want to talk about menstruation two paragraphs before you talk about phenomenal pizza. I have a burning desire to write about menstruation and pizza, but I don't have to do it in the same place.

I guess in the end it went a little deeper than just blogging. I mean, I have these two kind of divergent aspects of my personality; the foul-mouthed, over-emotional, perpetually teenage feminist and the gentler, more polished, officially-classy-and-cultured adult woman. Having these two sets of qualities exist within the same personality has always been a challenge for me (please see my astrological chart for reference). But I think I may have finally found the answer and it's almost blasphemous in it's simplicity: there truly is a time and place for everything.

love always

what I wore - New York

For some reason, leather pants always remind me of New York. I bought these pants while living in California, from a company whose warehouse is located a few miles from my job, and I've worn them in California a million more times than I have anywhere else. Still, for some reason, I think of this a quintessential New York outfit. Maybe it's the adolsecent shopping trips I used to take to St. Mark's Place where I would buy all manner of scandalous clothing to wear at my small town high school, inculding, of course, leather pants. In any case, these are the perfect leather pants that I wore in New York on a perfect snowy day, during my perfect vacation in January.

I love Coney Island forever and ever and that is enough

When I landed in New York, it was barely morning and it was bitter cold, maybe 8 or 9 degrees in the sun. I took a deep breath and prepared to step out of the airport into the most frigid air I had experienced since moving to California over a year ago. Now matter how cold it felt, it wouldn't matter, couldn't matter. I was a girl on a mission. I wanted, no, needed to get to Coney Island that very day, even if it meant freezing my ass off.

You probably think I'm a total freak for this, but oddly enough I wasn't alone. My friends drove up from CT for the sole purpose of visiting Coney Island with me in the dead middle of freezing winter. Not because we thought it would be warm, not because we thought it would be fun, not even because we wanted an excuse to drink four loko on the subway (although we did do that, too.) We visited Coney Island because we needed to pay our respects.
To us, Coney Island is much, much more than a trashy amusement park set on the water on the outskirts of the world's most fabulous city, although even if it were just that, it would still be pretty spectacular. Our connection with Coney Island goes back to the summer of 2007, when it became the setting for a day, perhaps a moment, perhaps the moment of our young lives. I've tried to explain it and I've tried to retell it countless times, but I never quite succeed in conveying the immensity of what occurred that day and why it keeps pulling us back, even on the coldest day of winter. Still, I'll try again.
I can't tell you what was happening for anyone else at that time, but I can tell you what was happening for me, and me, I was heartbroken. And in that heartbreak, the world seemed intensified so that even the smallest everyday occurrences felt unbearable. Work was awful, going out was awful. Fuck, breathing was awful. I woke up in tears nearly every day, devastated to remember that the circumstances that had driven me to such heartbreak were still true. I would stumble downstairs hysterical and my roommates, utterly bewildered and alienated by the intensity of my grief, despite their best efforts to be supportive would look at me in total loss. What could they possibly do for me?
Still, I did not give up. I tried to go out and force myself to have fun on numerous occasions. I even came sort of close a few times, but usually, whatever substance I was using to forget about my grief would turn on me and end up reminding me how bad I wanted to call, wanted to beg, wanted to do all those things you're not supposed to do when nursing a broken heart. That is, until we went to Coney Island.
It was summer, so it was Siren Fest. We Are Scientists and M.I.A.- for free!!!! Seriously, though, that doesn't even matter, because it wasn't the music and it wasn't the crowd, it was just the day. We listened to all the right songs on the way to the train station, faced the exact correct number of calamities to make it feel like an adventure (including taking the subway in the wrong direction and ending up in Harlem), and somehow ended up dancing underneath a roller coaster while sipping Jack Daniels through a straw on the most gorgeous of gorgeous summer days. It was the type of perfect day that's just too perfect to even imagine or fantasize about.

Now, I had perfect days before that one and I've had perfect days since, but the way that particular day appeared, in the midst of crushing heartbreak, has always seemed like a small miracle to me. The friends I was with on that day were not recovering from a wounded heart as I was, but I know it felt miraculous to them, too. It was as if, for one moment whatever we were dealing with at the time, be it heartbreak or something else entirely, just faded in the shadow of an idea; that the world was a big and beautiful place, that it was possible for someplace like Coney Island to even exist and that it was possible for us to exist there along with it.

After that day, I began handling things differently. Instead of dwelling constantly in the heartbreak of my past, I thought instead of what I liked. I made mental lists, as I began to remember I like sushi, I like vintage dresses and soon I found myself fully recovered, planting gardens full of vegetables and getting shitfaced at paella parties. My freinds displayed similar behaviour. We all seemed to feel more in touch with our own preferences, who we were, what we liked, most importantly, what made us happy. It's an easy equation; no matter how down I feel, thinking about dancing with my friends underneath The Cyclone at Coney Island always makes me happy.
That day left an imprint on my heart. A map for how to get back there. Now, when I am feeling upset, I look back to that day. No matter how tumultuous and stormy my thoughts and feeling become, that day is the center that everything else swirls around, the eye of the storm. It's where I go when I'm lost. It's where I go when I need to remind myself who I am and what I love. I love dancing. I love being drunk in the sunshine. I love my friends more than anything in the world. And no matter how bad things get, no matter how cold it is outside, I still love Coney Island, and I always will.

i've been sleeping

I can't believe that I have somehow managed to not write about New York, yet. I've been home for a month, one whole month!, and somehow, not a word. While I was there, I imagined different ways to tell you about the perfect truffle fries I was eating or the flawless pair of boots I spotted on the subway and instantly coveted. In fact, I wouldn't even have to write in order to tell you about New York. I would simply have to type. The tough part has already been done and then filed away in the back of my mind to pull out whenever I have a second., which of course, I haven't.
I could blame it on my job. My schedule recently shifted and while it is now infinitely more manageable, it is taking me a bit of getting used to. I could blame it on my boyfriend, too. Since his return to Oakland he has insisted on usurping every last particle of energy I may have possessed at one point or another in my life, by forcing me to lay around in bed with him and have perfect weekends and be blissfully in love and such. That shit is draining, I tell you! Really though, I think it's better if I blame it on a book. The one I mentioned in my last post: Just Kids by Patti Smith. You know, the book that made me forget I was on a six-hour flight from the East to West Coast?
Just Kids was written by Patti Smith as an ode to her friend and sometime lover, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, but it's actually a name-dropping, self-glorifying, masturbatory description of what it's like to be the coolest chick in New York in 1970, (which in case you aren't cool enough to know this is way cooler than being the coolest chick in New York today...) and holy fuck, it is a masterpiece.
I don't know, it's totally possible that Patti Smith could write a three hundred page treatise on what it feels like to take a shit and I'd eat it like candy. There's something about her style of writing that feels instantly heart-wrenching, and at the same time, so familiar as to be almost familial. Maybe this is because my first exposures to her particular brand of intensity all occurred through my parents who were both on-and-off fans of hers. Who the fuck knows.

In any case, I think the whole thing is beautifully written. It veers occasionally into the realm of the unbelievable, portraying the author as nothing less than a saint, abstaining from drinks, drugs and everything fun, and stumbling, completely accidentally of course, into glorious social situations with the likes of Joni Mitchell and Jimi Hendrix whilst she was simply trying to focus on her art and be noble. But really, who cares? We all do that. We all remember things in a way that allows us to view ourselves favorably, and I think we all also know that Patti Smith did as many drugs as anyone else who lived at the Chelsea Hotel in the 70s. But truthfully, it just doesn't even matter. I mean, she's writing about living in the Chelsea Hotel for fucksake, and getting coffee with Allan Ginsberg and it's all just so enviably romantic.
Actually, my favorite part of the entire book is in the very beginning, when she's talking about living in Jersey or Pittsburgh or some similarly god-awful place and being dirt poor and getting knocked up by accident. She mentions something about going to some diner once a week to get a donut and listen to their jukebox and how that was like, the bright spot in her life at that time. For some reason, the idea of Patti Smith self-soothing by eating a shitty donut at some shitty diner in shithole Jersey, all by her lonesome, was just so, so touching to me. Maybe it's because when I get depressed, I too have a tendency to eat shitty food in solitude. It just seemed like such a vulnerable, human thing to share, and the fact that it happens in the beginning sort of sets the tone for the entire book. So, even though her remaining attempts to portray herself as a real person with real struggles fall sort of flat in light of the fact that she doesn't actually have a real job besides being photographed all day and kicking it with celebs, you kind of forgive her for it, because you know, at one point in her life, she ate shitty donuts like the rest of us.
And I know, I know, everything I have to say about this book is just reeking of jealousy. I'll admit it freely. Stories like this make me jealous. I've said it here before, but goddamn, I want to be an artist!!! I want to quit my day job and be a fucking artist! I'm positive that this is part of the reason this book is so appealing to me. I have differing opinions on Patti Smith's merit as a musician. I find a lot of her music whiny and self-indulgent, but Dancing Barefoot resonates with me more strongly than almost any other piece of music I've ever heard. But regardless of her talent, or her skill, she set out to be an artist. She had some sort of blind, almost naive, but nonetheless fierce faith that she would be able to support herself through means other than the conventional, and whether she got lucky, or worked her ass off for it, she succeeded. Things could have fallen apart for her at any given moment, as easily as they could have for any one else, but they didn't, and in that, there is magic.
There is magic, too in the way that she describes the city. The mood she creates is just so, so New York. After a week of trudging through blizzards, getting snowed in, and remembering why I moved to the West Coast in the first place, I needed that. Before I tried to tell you about my vacation, before I even tried to digest it myself, I needed to remember that New York is magic, too. So, on the plane ride home, I read about New York and I re-lived my vacation. I re-lived every moment I've ever spent in New York surrounded by that particular type of magic, and in re-living, it all became tied together. This book, my vacation, every moment I've spent in New York city from the day I was born. I think that after one month, I'm finally ready to tell you about all of it.

a dream about flying

Melvin Sokolsky

Sometimes, an airplane can feel like a death sentence. Hours of your life, wasted, twisted up like a pretzel, hungry and cranky, with approximately one-hundred strangers who are also hungry and cranky and you all have to stay like that for hours, crowding each other's space and breathing each other's air. It's like something out of a horror movie. Some sick form of torture that only a madmen could ever devise.

There are other times though, when it doesn't feel that way at all.

I am writing this on an airplane right now.

And it feels good.

My flight was delayed due to the fog in San Francisco. Would you believe that? I mean, you'd think that by now they would realize that it's usually pretty foggy in San Francisco and plan accordingly. Then, after we boarded, we sat on the ground for another hour while the plane went through de-icing, and guess what?

I still feel good.

I feel better than good. I feel free. I've got about four more hours ahead of me, and I'm not sure that I've ever felt more free. I am somewhere between New York and San Fransisco, somewhere between my boyfriend and my empty bed, somewhere between my family and my future. And I cannot even explain to you how deliciously fucking free I feel.

There's a part of me that feels like a total bitch saying that. Especially if I start thinking about the boy I left in New York, his eyes like icy pinwheels, lost and confused, while I build walls to tear us apart.

“I'm really sad that you're leaving.”

“Oh, come on. I'll see you in four days. It's no big deal.”

And then, “I'm just moody because my vacation is over.”

It's been a whirlwind of a week. It was exactly the vacation I needed but it ended and not a moment too soon. Don't get me wrong, it was perfect, or maybe it was imperfect in all the right ways. The weather was disastrous. During my five days on the east coast, it snowed and rained and snowed and slushed and sleeted and snowed some more. Temperatures dipped down into the single digits, and my bank account came pretty close as well. Still, it was my vacation and I loved every second of it. That is, until I started to drown in it.

You see, I have this habit of isolating myself. When given the option, I'd take at least one hour each day to do nothing but sit in silence and revel in the detail of my own mind. I am a champion daydreamer, a world class fantasizer and my ability to overanalyze is so keen that I've occasionally been called obsessive. Some might argue that tendencies like this are destructive or anti-social. I believe however (and I'm not the only one – my therapist agrees with me!), that these moments of intense thought are crucial to my ability to live a rich and satisfying life.

My personality is highly empathetic. I feel other people feelings, dramas and issues as if they are my own. I'm not really sure why I do this, but I like to think that it's a good thing as it keeps me humble when I'm not otherwise inclined towards that. It does however, have it's drawbacks. Like when the people that I love start to overwhelm me. Like when I start to hate being looked at, let alone touched. Like the fact that I need hours to myself for deep contemplation when other people don't and sometimes this makes a mess of things.

That's why I'm happy to be on this plane. That's why I'm happy to be lost behind my laptop. That's why I'm happy, because I have an excuse. Everyone isolates themselves on planes. They made me turn my phone off. I'm alternating between writing this and reading Just Kids by Patti Smith. Honestly, can you think of anything more romantic than to be reading that on the way back from Brooklyn to San Francisco? I'm totally smitten. Not to mention the fact that I'm weightless, flying through the air, a million miles above every thing that matters. And I've got six whole hours of this. That's enough to make up for all the seclusion I missed this week and then some!

That's not to say that I'd like to stay this way forever. The second my boyfriend left my side, I felt his absence acutely. Not like a wound. Maybe more like a cramp, or the way your muscles ache the day after the gym. Kind of sweet, kind of sore. I'm glad that I've only got four more days until I see him next. I'm glad that he'll be back in Oakland soon. Any longer than that and I would start to get desperate. The way I did before. Wondering if he would prefer some other girl over me, if I had alienated him with my unrelenting need for space.

But I won't worry about those things now. Instead, I'll read my romantic book while I eat pastries that I smuggled in my bag from Brooklyn. I'll marvel at the idea of eating pastries at 36,000 feet. Maybe I'll order a movie or a jasmine tea (I love virgin!). Until I land in San Francisco, this moment is mine.

dream manifesto

nhung

When I was 11, I had this dream. It took place outside of my elementary school, which happens to be located down the street from my childhood home. It was a dream about two boys, both of whom I knew in real life, neither of whom I had ever thought about sexually before (yes, I thought about boys sexually at 11! Stop pretending you didn't.). In the dream, I lost my virginity to one of the boys, while the other stood and watched. I did not however, lose my virginity to him in the normal way. There was no penetration, maybe not even any bodily contact (It's a bit blurry. It was, after all, 15 years ago). It was more just an awareness that it had happened; a strange knowledge that I had chosen to give this boy a piece of my innocence, and a feeling that it was supremely right or meant-to-be.

I woke up that morning and proceeded to have the most gigantic crush of my life on this boy. Then, five years later, at sixteen, I lost my v-card to him on the floor of his friend's sister's dorm room. I felt nothing. I felt less than nothing. We fooled around for a long time before he actually, you know, put it in, and when he finally did, I had to question whether or not he really had, because that's how much it felt like nothing. It was if I was merely carrying out the physical end of a spiritual contract I had made a million years ago.

Don't you think that shit is fucking bizzarre?!

For the longest time, I swore I was psychic. I had other experiences of this type, too. Where I would dream something and it would come true. Or I would dream something and someone would start talking to me about a similar situation the next day. One time I was involved in a very, very bad romance with a paranoid schizophrenic and I developed these nightmares about terrible gruesome creatures only to find out later that the creatures in my dreams matched the description of his schizophrenic delusions exactly. Needless to say, this was a big motivating factor in choosing to never sleep next to him again ever.

Later, I developed an odd recurring dream. Almost every night, I would dream of having sex with one of my close family members. I would wake up every morning disgusted with myself, sometimes in tears. I went to therapy and my therapist assured me that I was not sick or secretly desiring of incestual encounters. Then, I moved away and the dreams stopped. It never occured to me that the dreams were actually my subconcious screaming at me You are too close with these people!!!, despite the fact that the dreams started at the exact same moment when I became too scared to leave my hometown for fear of abandoning my family.

Yup, I've had a long and intense realtionship with the part of my mind that wakes up when my body is sleeping. Even when my dreams are not psychic, or incestuous, they are often vivid and strange; filled with beauty and symbolism and emotions too raw to ever feel in real life. I have come to the conclusion that I would not trade my good dreams in for relief from the bad ones, even when they were seemingly ruining my life. I love dreaming. I love my dreams. They are one of my primary interests and motivations in this life. When I saw Inception, I left the theater pissed that it was not real, because if I could dream for a living I would do it in a second, no matter how dangerous or illegal.

I have long searched for an outlet for my vivid dreaming. If I had any skill at painting or drawing, I would put them on display for the whole world to see. I have tried to write them out, but it is infinitely frustrating. Our language is not designed for such intense things. Over time, I have resigned myself to the sad truth that dreams are not for sharing, and even if they were, how could they possibly mean as much to someone else as they mean to me?

But then, this morning while I was running, I had a thought. It was briliantly sunny out, and the song that was playing on my ipod seemed to complement the weather perfectly. I had a desire that was similar to my desire to share my dreams; I wanted to store that moment and save it for later. I wanted to bring it home to Connecticut and pull it out to show all the people I love who have never been here what a California winter feels like. Then it occured to me that had I never moved here, I'd be one of those people who had never experienced winter in California, and then I started to consider what effect that would have on my dreams.

Sometimes in my dreams, I visit places over and over again. Often these places do not exist in real life, but are evocative of other places that do. Sometimes, I dream of feelings over and over. Sometimes I dream of people who I love, or people I have never even met. I have come to think of all the things I dream about as my dream vocabulary. The pictures and symbols and sounds and feelings my subconcious has latched onto, either in real life or my own vibrant imaginings, have served as a pallette that I've used each night to create an entire dreaming world that I inhabit. What a fucking miracle that our brains are even capable of this!

Even more miraculous is the realization I came to this morning; that our dream vocabularies are (mostly) under our control. That if we cultivate beautiful experiences and think beautiful thoughts, not only will we live beautiful lives, but we'll dream beautiful dreams. And in this way, our dreams are actually moments that encompass our entire lives. Every memory that you thought was gone forever is a part of the material that creates your dreams. Dreams are what our lives look like when time no longer exists; a snapshot of every moment we've experienced all rolled into one, and in this way, when we're dreaming we are infinite and eternal.

Fuck, that was one of the best thoughts I've ever had!!!!!

So good a thought, in fact, that it's where I have decided to start. And I know, I know; technically I've already started. I told you all months ago, about this new beginning and then I halted, stuck. There was a spark, but then it never ignited. I carved out my place and I waited.

And I don't mean to say that I've seen the light. I don't mean to preach at you like some evangelical nutcase claiming that I know the answer because god showed it to me. Rather, it was as if all the thoughts I had been mulling over, arranging and re-arranging in my mind, slowly came to form an image that finally felt right. I realized, very calmly, in a single moment that all I've ever wanted to do was collect dreams. Or more precisely, collect experiences and filter them through the kaleidoscope of my unique perspective to create dreams, and I realized also, that I want to record that process and that ultimately, that is the only imprint I want to leave on this world.

So, here it is: from this moment forth, a new paradigm. I will write as if I'm dreaming. I will write about my dreaming. In the end, they are the same thing; a collection of moments, perceptions, realities. Welcome to my museum

enchanted forest

Suza Scalora

When I was little, I used to read fairy tales. Weetzie Bat fairy tales. Tarot card fairy tales. Books were my religion. Children went to church with their families, I was curled up at home reading fairy tales.

When it was time to grow up, I never knew how. People asked me what would you like to be? and my heart would answer i'd like to be an artist. i'd like to be a hero. What does anyobody want to be except exactly who they are?

Fairy tales do not tell you what you will have to sell in order to pay your rent. They do not tell you what you end up trading for your success. There are no instructions for what to do when your work becomes a monster that steals your time, your energy, your ability to trust and love. There is no handsome prince who comes to slay the beast.

I have heard tales of those who do things differently. But they are tales. Not false, necesarilly, but pleasant and polite. Whenever someone whom I admire is interviewed about how they got where they are, I wish they'd stop talking about how important it is to follow your dreams and just tell me how the fuck they paid their rent while they were waiting for their dreams to make money.

So, this is where I am now. In the woods. Not pleasant. Not pretty. But I didn't promise to be pleasant or pretty, I promised to be honest. In all honesty, I wish I had something beautiful to share with you, but I just don't

I'd like to be honest with you, if I may.

I had a blog before, but I stopped liking it. It was boring, confining, less than authentic. Those of you who know me are aware of how much authenticity I require. Actually, authenticity is a pussy word. I require brutal honesty. Nothing but the realest.

So, I made this new blog where, I imagined, I'd be brutally honest. I would stick to writing about the things that I love, but I would do so without fear, or hesitation and with a level of candour previously unheard of in the blogging world. And then, I didn't. I promptly resorted back to my old ways, deleting millions of posts before I even finished writing them for fear of pissing someone off or creating an image for myself that might not be so complementary. Old habits die hard, I guess.

But it's not working for me. I need to say what I feel, and I need to say it with faith in my heart that no matter how ugly I am capable of being, what lies at my center is good, and worthwhile. I've got a point to make and I need to stop being scared to make it.

Take this week for example. I didn't write a thing. Not a single thing. I didn't have time to take a picture Actually, I did take some pictures, but then I promptly left my camera in Ashley's car. It's been one of those weeks. My day job feels like an abusive relationship. My relationship ran away to Canada. My friends all moved, or are busy, or tired and when they're not, I'm fucking tired, and in the midst of this I keep managing to prove to myself again and again that I have no self control. None whatsoever.

Look at me falling apart at the seams!

No, really. Look:


This is me, at home in my bed. I'm not wearing any makeup and my hair looks like shit because I went to the gym and got all sweaty and was too lazy to wash it. My eyes look like death because I've been drinking too much and everyone knows that sleeping when you're drunk is like not sleeping at all.

Still, I'm happy to be at home. I'm happy that I finally managed to find time for a workout. I'm happy that I seem to have hit some sort of rock bottom. Now, I will curl up here for a few days and sleep. And when I'm done, trust. I'll come back brighther than ever. I'm really much better at this brutal stuff than I've ever cared to admit.

Thanks, for real

I wanted to tell you a story for Thanksgving.

I wanted to tell you how, when I was 23, I made the best Thanksgving dinner Highland Ave has ever seen (God, I miss my house on Highland) I wanted to tell you how I stayed in the night before (for the first time ever!) and blanched brussels sprouts instead of crushing long islands at Kev's Pub with my girls. I wanted to tell you what a baby my ex-boyfriend was about his deathly hangover the next day and how I managed to pull it all together at the last minute despite an incident involving a bloody nose and an almost fire. I wanted to tell you how I curled up at the end of the night, watching Sideways for the first time and eating Delice d'Argental with my fingers, and felt like I had finally entered adulthood and like things could stay that way forever.

And of course they didn't. That was the moral of the story I wanted to tell you. Things change.

But I wanted to tell you about what stayed the same, too. I wanted to tell you how right before that 23rd Thanksgiving, I received the largest sum of money I'd ever seen and in my infinite 23 year old adult wisdom I decided to invest it.....in as much vintage as my closet could hold. I wanted to tell you how I purchased this unnasuming BCBG piece that I ended up wearing that Thanksgiving, and how it sticks out in my mind more than any other detail about that day, how I've worn it a million times since, ripped it and sewn it back together. And I wanted to tell you how my Thanksgiving this year felt like a real holiday because I wore that dress and all it's history, because I followed a tradition that I made by accident while trying to be an adult, and that's why clothing is important to me, and that's the only reason I'd ever even bother to take a picture of what what I was wearing on a certain day or list my outift details.

(I promise I will never be one of those fashion bloggers who bores you with endless outfit posts that all look the same and then feels clever because they managed to rip off someone other motherfuckers stupid, trendy look so accurately. I think that's shameful and disgusting. But seriously, though, have you ever seen a more perfect dress to wear on Thanksgiving? I promise you haven't because it does not exist.)

But I didn't write anything on Thanksgving. I barely even managed to take photos of the aforementioned dress. Instead, I made this hazelnut cake with brown butter (minus the chocolate) and it was quite possibly the best and most easiest cake I've ever produced, ever. I also made a stuffing that included way too much chicken stock and resembled more closely a bread pudding, but was adictively good nonetheless. I discussed with my uncle the promised benefits of listening to binaural beats and whether or not they could possibly be anything other than bullshit and I played with my new SLR and learned a tiny bit more about how a camera actually works.

Most importantly though, I felt thankful. Without warning or warrant, seemingly from nowhere, I felt thankful. I felt thankful because I felt at home. I felt thankful because this year, on Thanksgiving I felt like I was having a real holiday and not just honoring the ghost of some ritual I used to celebrate, in my old home, where I used to live.

This is my excuse. This is the reason I did not write you a meaningful story on Thanksgiving. I was too busy giving thanks. Being humbled by the kind of gratitude that comes swooping in like a storm and knocks you on your ass. Yes, things change, but on Thanksgiving for me this year, all the changes I have endured over the past couple of years added up to one of those perfect moments where all you can do is sit in awe and honor that perfection with the knowledge that it is fleeting and thing will change again. Soon.

So, I hope you can forgive me, for my lack of proper picture-taking and for my confession of supreme gratitude on a day that's not even sanctioned for that. And I hope you know that whether they are belated or not, my wishes that you and everyone you love should constantly be humbled and awed by intense gratitude are no less sincere.

Happy (late, late, late) Thanksgiving!

goodbye.

i can't even remember how many times I've written a post here swearing up and down that I would update this damn thing more often. and just as many times, I've broken that promise. i must confess, it's been a while since this felt like it was truly mine.

this has always been my "personal" blog. meaning that I wrote about personal subjects, but also, that I took it personally. i shared this blog with my friends, my family, my facebook. and you guys all read it! maybe you never commented, but you read it, you sent me texts, asked me when the fuck i'd get around to posting again, and because of that, I continued to write it. for you.

it's been a long time since my first entries in this thing have had anything to do with the person that I am now. i do not look back and cringe, as if wishing I had never been young or stupid or bratty, naive, in love. rather, i look back and feel disconnected.
i go through these phases where I think how much I want to write and I swear that I'm going to start updating this damn thing again, and maybe, just maybe, I can manage to push out three decent posts before the weight of all the baggage i've unloaded here over time becomes crushing and i lose my desire to write at all, because writing here has become a chore and that's never been what this was about.
but i do want to write. if you know me, you know that. i treasure my perspective more than i treasure just about anything else, and i go to great lengths to preserve and maintain it, to not allow it to be muddled or skewed. and I do this because I've always felt it would serve me well one day, and I've just decided that day is happening right now. it's been happening, all around me, for months and i've been ignoring it.
so, i'm not done writing. but I am done writing here. and i'm done writing for any reason other than to honor my perspective in all it's sloppy, vulgar, intense fragility, and if that's not something you think you can handle, than you're entitled to your opinion, but to be frank, I could care less about it. but if you do think you can handle that and maybe that it could even be fun or entertaining or worth five minutes of your time, then you can visit me here in the future.

i still love you, always.

this microphone is not a dildo so you are going to have to cum a little harder than that

oh, jasmine mans. I just so happened to wake up so full of feminist angst this morning that I seriously considered quitting my job just so that I wouldn't have to come in today and look at anyone's stupid face, and then I saw this. Now, all I wanna do is watch it on repeat...and maybe make out with you a little.

love always

birfday witches

Yes, yes, it's that time again! My birthday is right around the corner. Yes, yes, I know. I'm bad at birthdays. Always have been. I get all caught up in the expectation to have the best time ever, and I go cray cray trying to control shit and then I'm inevitably let down. Last year was the crown jewel in a long line of bad, bad birthdays because I had just moved to California and did not know anyone besides my Dad and his girlfriend and my Uncle. So, I pretty much went to bed at ten o'clock on my birthday and may or may not have cried myself to sleep.
But this year will be different, I just know it! I have the most fabulous friends in the world to keep me calm and grounded and I'm gonna do my absolute best to just chill out and let it happen.
Now, I am not at all expecting presents. In fact, I could care less about them. If no one buys them, I will still be happy as long as I have a good time surrounded by people that I love.
-But.....
people have been asking me what I want, so to make it easier, and just for the sake of fantasy, here's what I'd like if you're buying.

-Tickets to Treasure Island (Saturday only! I repeat, only Saturday!)
I wanna see LCD Soundsystem! So fucking bad it hurts. Seriously though, I don't go alone, so I'm not actually asking you to buy me a ticket. I can afford my own. But, if this sounds like something you might wanna do, please buy yourself a tickets, that way we can go together and hold hands and dance in the sun!

-Moneys
I know that is a seriously weak request. Especially considering that I am not broke. I do however, have to afford a plane ticket home on Christmas Eve. In case you didn't know, flying on Christmas Eve is insanely expensive. If I had a choice, I would not do it. But my work schedule demands that I be there right up until the last second, and I cannot, absolutely cannot spend Christmas away from my family. Sooooo, any monetary gifts that I receive for my birthday this year will be funding that trip. I promise.

-A bike (pink, please!)
When I first moved here, I swore I would never ride a bike. It seemed like the trendy thing that everyone was doing, and therefore, I felt I should avoid it like the plague. But since then, I can't even tell you how many times I've wished I had a goddamn bike. Like when all my friends don't have to worry about parking/driving drunk but I do. Or the other day when my roommate and I were trying to decide whether to walk or drive to the farmer's market and the obvious solution was to just bike there, but since I don't have a fucking bike, we walked. In the rain. You should have seen my fucking hair after that.
And no, I don't actually know how to ride a bike, but many people have generously offered to spend their time teaching me, and I think it would be shame not to take advantage of their generosity.

-Bubbles
If you want me to love you forever I'll take bottles of Egly Ouriet, Pommery, Vilmart & Cie and Nicolas Feiullatte, please and thank you. Although, you could also just buy some cheap ass drugstore shit and I'd be equally pleased, as long it sparkles.

-Cupcakes
Do I really even have to explain this?

-Your beautiful faces
What I want most for my birthday is to see as many of my friends and family as possible. I understand that some of you live far and that makes it pretty much impossible, but those of you that can show up, please do. Having your friends three-thousand miles away on your birthday really puts this kind of shit into perspective. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would make me happier than to turn 26 surrounded by as many of you as possible.

Okay, now let's go celebrate!

love always

seasons change but people don't

The other night I was laying in bed, after a deadly combination of red wine and white russians, and I had a thought that sent me absolutely crazy! Like batshit, I tell you! The thought was this: I am currently missing fall on the East Coast!

This has never, ever happened to me before! It almost came pretty close to happening last year, as I was preparing to move cross country with little more than a week's notice, but I stretched out my time at home, opting to drive faster and longer days so I could squeeze more time out of my last autumn.

weheartit

Like many New Englanders, autumn is my favorite season, and it's not just because of all that beautiful fall foliage we're so famous for (although it is insane, I promise you). There's something about the air. The way it smells (crushed leaves and bonfires), the way it feels (crisp and cool, almost brittle). For a brief moment in time, having to wear a scarf and a hoodie feels downright romantic.

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Fall in New England is fair season. I know I'm corny for it, but I absolutely love fairs. The Durham Fair is my personal favorite, although the big E is impressive and unbelievable in it's tackiness, and runs a close second.Here's the worst part about my mini-obsession with the Durham Fair: I never even go on any rides. Nor do I play games, or look at handmade candles and dream catchers. I go there for one thing and one thing only; the food. Fair food is hands down, my favorite, favorite guilty pleasure. Must haves at the Durham Fair include strawberry shortcake, clam chowder in a bread bowl, and a ginormous bag of kettle corn, and if you go to the big E, for the love of god, eat a cream puff!

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Fall in New England is also apple season. I mean, I'm sure it's apple season here, too, but I don't think California has quite the wealth of apples as a place like CT, and even if they did, they most certainly do not have Lyman Orchards, where you can get an apple cider and a cider donut and then, maybe even go on a hayride (do they still do that?) with a bunch of bratty, dirty kids. The best thing though, about Lyman's is the way their apples taste, straight off the tree. Simultaneously juicy and crunchy and altogether perfect.

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It breaks my heart to think that children in California have never spent an afternoon raking leaves in their yard and then jumping into the piles, running around smelling like damp earth with twigs in their hair.
If I had my way, for my birthday, I'd take all the people I love who live here and put them on a plane to meet up with all the people I love back home, and then we'd go have a bonfire in the woods, just like when I was 17.
I guess I'm just feeling homesick. Waxing poetic about the east coast and forgetting that after fall comes winter, which is bitter cold and, after Christmas, completely unbearable. I've heard rumors that the West Coast has it's fair share of fall activities, too. Harvest festivals and haunted houses. The air here at this of year feels warmer, but not altogether different. There's still that sense of changing seasons, some things ending, others just beginning. Who knows, maybe ten years from now, I'll be looking back here longingly, thinking how much I loved spending fall in the bay area.

weheartit

But for now, I'm feeling bittersweet. Almost enjoying the way my heart aches for what feels like home. There's something special about being here and missing there. When I was younger and the feeling of loss was a relatively new sensation, I would always go to my father with my troubles, bemoaning how much it hurt. "So let it hurt," he would say, "That's how you know it meant something."

love always

holiday

I finally had an actual vacation! Like, as in, I got on a plane and went somewhere new and different for fun. Not for work, not for some tedious family obligation, and certainly not anywhere near CT (even though I don't live there anymore, something about it is like, the anti-vacation). I went to San Diego to visit Scarlet and Geoff in their cute new house and celebrate the 4th of July by drinking copious amounts of alcohol and eating way too much food.
The best thing about Scarlet and Geoff's new house is their shower, for sure. I noticed their amazing shower curtain first, with it's impeccable detailing and flawless craftsmanship. Would you believe they sourced it all the way from Target?! Astounding! After cooing over it for like an hour when I first arrived, I was awed to find, the next morning, that behind this masterpiece lies the most fabulous mint-green tile I have ever seen! Of course I promptly forced Scarlet to take slutty photos of me standing in front of it.Unfortunately, the colors didn't come out the way I had hoped, but I promise you, it was the mintiest mint I've ever seen!
Also, check out my outfit! I got the cover-up at H+M and I've been dying to wear it ever since. I was so pumped for this trip, because unlike the Bay, San Diego actually gets beach weather. I wanted to wear my cover-up and get a tan and drink pina coladas! Alas, it was totally grey the entire time I was there, and I only actually wore this outfit for the above photo. Goddamn June gloom!
We still totally had a blast, though. On the first night, we went to this dive bar where they had this old chick handing out these awesome patriotic accessories.

We found some randoms and bought them home with us.
When the sun came up in the morning, Scarlet and I were still awake watching creepy videos like this one.
We slept for approximately five minutes. Geoff made waffles in the morning and Scarlet and I lit things on fire to make bananas foster. Then Scarlet and Geoff had a party.
Lots of people came and we ate lots of food and drank lots of beer and vodka. We went to see the fireworks at the ocean.We sat on top of this cliff and watched the fireworks explode over the water. It was dark out and the waves were crashing over all these dark, jagged looking rocks. It was one of those moments where it's so pretty you wish you could share it with everyone, so you sit there clicking the shutter on your camera, attempting to record it somehow, but eventually you just give up because you know it'll never look as beautiful as it did in person.
After the fireworks, we walked back to the house. There was another fireworks display going off in the distance. We couldn't see the actual fireworks, but it lit up the sky and made it look like magic. We stayed up drinking, yet again, until the wee hours of the morning, and by the time I got on the plane on Monday morning I was in this bizarre, slightly blissful half hungover state that lasted a good twenty four hours. I guess that's how you know you've had a vacation, right?
love always

pride

So, I went to the gay pride parade in San Francisco and it was pretty fucking fantastic.
I've been to gay pride parades on the East Coast, and while I was never entirely unimpressed by the spectacle of it all, I always felt like a bystander. A mere observer. Someone who is not allowed to truly take part in all the glittering festivities because I, myself, do not identify as gay. I have often found myself wishing there was a holiday in which heterosexuals were allowed to parade through the streets wearing nothing but a sparkly g-string. (and trust me, I get it. In our culture everyday is a celebration of heterosexuality. I just wanna wear the damn g-string!)
Prior to this event, all my friends assured me that it would in fact, be entirely acceptable for me to walk around in a sparkly g-string. I was planning to go all crazy with my outfit, constructing some elaborate costume-thing. But then I went to this party on Friday night and ended up spending Saturday throwing up and eating chocolate sorbet and burnt caramel ice cream from ici in an attempt to cure my hangover and I woke up on Sunday with nothing planned, or even laundered for that matter. So, I threw on some jeans and a fancy halter, hopped on BART (which was swarming with folks in rainbow tutus) and set off to meet my friends at Oona's office, which is three stories up and has floor to ceiling windows. Straight VIP status, I tell you!
From the second I got off the train, I could tell this was a different scene than I was used to. I swear to god, it felt like everyone in the entire city had shown up to watch this thing. I don't know how to say this without being totally cheesy, but I found it tender, heartwarming, touching that an entire city would show up to honor gay pride. Not to hate on my hometown, but where I'm from, there are people who wouldn't go to a gay pride parade if you paid them. Pathetic, I know. To most folks from the Bay Area, I imagine that it's no surprise to see their community united this way. It's a well known fact that San Francisco is a notoriously accepting city, not only of gays, but of people from all different walks of life. Still, to me it was really special to know that a place exists where being gay (or a sex-worker, or a radical, pagan feminist, etc.) is not only allowed, it's simply not a big deal. I got hollered at by mad straight dudes who showed up for gay pride and no matter how annoying it may have been (I had one dude scream down the street at me “Girrrl, you got a fattyyy!!”) that's actually kind of cool when you think about it.
Plus, the parade was breathtaking:So, yeah, I was getting all emotional, not to mention tipsy and feeling so damn warm and fuzzy that I failed to notice I was missing THE BACKSTREET BOYS!!!!!! They played a set after the parade and I was too busy holding hands with my girlfriends and crying happy tears into my gin and tonic to realize what the fuck was going on. The shame! The horror!

After I finally recovered from that massive heartbreak (2 seconds later), we decided to walk down to the castro, where, sure as shit, everyone was still out and about celebratin'. Oh, except for this chick:We started talking to her because Oona wanted to adopt her cat, but unlike most of the people you encounter posted up on city sidewalks, this woman was actually making sense. She told us this story, how she came from a small town in Ohio and couldn't wait to get out, how she was young and wild and having the time of her life in good old SF, and then, how she found she had HIV and her life fell apart. The saddest thing about her story was the earnestness with which she described attempting to get government assistance and then realizing that all the money that is supposed to be helping people like her is actually being embezzled by fat cat politicians who are using it as a means to their own end. I can't guarantee that she isn't full of shit or batshit crazy, but it was a good reminder that if you're donating to charity and you don't fully research or understand the causes you're donating to, you may as well be throwing your money in the trash for all the good it's doing.This chick is like, 60 years old and has been living with AIDS for years now. Can you imagine how beautiful she must've been when she was younger? And the whole bit about being from a small town and moving to San Francisco and loving it? That could've been me! Seriously people, if you're shelling out money to some random charity just so you can feel like you're doing something good, please stop. Find a legit program that's actually out there helping real people.

After all that heavy shit (plus a failed attempt at using a public bathroom) we were in desperate need of a drink. We found this place that basically looked like a swanky hall of mirrors and settled in with some dark and stormys

I took random photos in the bathroom.

Then we took off to another bar, where we engaged in more debauchery.This is where things start to get a bit blurry. Drunk drama, an insufferably long wait for the BART, I may have even eaten mcdonald's (ugh). Still, it was all so fucking worth it. I might not be gay, but when it comes to being part of a community that knows how to unite and truly go wild in celebration of our differences, I'm totally fucking proud.

love always

Best Day Ever!

No, not because Eclipse is finally out today.
Today is my best friend Amy's birthday! 27 years ago today, a miracle occurred and one of the baddest bitches this world will ever see was born. Here, the top five reasons why that makes me so ecstatic:

5. Her sick dance moves!
No disrespect to the king of pop or anything, but now that he's all dead and gone, Amy is officially the only person on the planet who truly knows how to work it out to "Billie Jean". Seriously, if you live in Mtown and you've never experienced this phenomenon in action, go to Amy's house and beat down her door until she agrees to show you her old dance videos. No life is complete without seeing this.

4. She had a baby on my couch!
After an experience like that, how could you not be close?! The way that Erin came into this world is so intense and so magical. I feel privileged to have been a part of it.

3. She is an excellent mother, among other things.

Amy's devotion to her daughter is truly moving. Her comittment to raising her child in a loving and supportive manner is nothing short of exemplary. But Amy's not one to flaunt that. So many of my facebook friends who have children are constantly posting about how much they love their kids, which is sweet and all but it's also kind of a given. Of course you love your kids! Everyone loves their kids! Amy loves her daughter with a fierceness like no other, but that hasn't stopped from doing a number of other amazing things, like finishing her graduate degree and being an all around down ass chick.

2. She's funny as hell!Even in my darkest moments, Amy is one of the few people who can always get me to crack a smile. Her sense of humor is dark, occasionally innapropriate and always hysterical. From telling boys "I already had you!" to joking about beating off with weston corn oil, this bitch always has me dying! Plus, she has one of those awesome laughs that makes everyone else want to laugh too, even though she says it's really a cackle.

1. She's the bestest friend in the whole wide world!
Amy is loyal, almost to a fault. No matter how many times we've lost touch throughout the years, no matter how many bad situations I've dragged her into, she has always come through for me when I needed her. Amy is that chick who will sit and have a deep conversation while you're trying to work out your shit and then drag your ass out dancing and force feed you shots when it's time to move on and get over it. I seriously cannot even count the number of dilemnas I've successfully made it through just because she was there to support me. Despite the face that I live three thousand miles away, she still picks up her phone whenever I'm feeling low, and most of the time, just hearing her voice on the other end makes me feel better automatically.

I love you Amy LaMarre! My life would not be complete without you! I hope you have the best birthday ever because no one deserves it as much as you!

love always

time and space

Finally.....
A moment to breathe.
I wish I could spend all day writing in this thing, telling you about every single one of my fabulous adventures. Alas, I am too busy having them. And also, you know, working and sleeping and doing normal stuff (what a bother!)
I do have to say though, as of late, I believe I have become more adventurous...and more fabulous! Last weekend was a wild dance party on treasure island.

Look at that breathtaking view!!! Look at those palm tress!

Look at that sunshine!Look at my adorable friends! I live in California now! Can you fucking believe it?!

Admittedly, I love it here. Since I moved, I have been happier, healthier, more centered and at the same time, crazier than I ever would have believed possible. Do I think it's because I live in California now? No. Do I think it's because I actually had the balls to pick up my shit and move out here? Do I think it's because I faced down one of my worst fears and actually left the place where I felt safest and most secure? Yes, yes, a million times, yes! The best advice I can give you in this entire life is to find what scares you most and then do it until you're not scared anymore.
With that being said, there is a very special place in my heart that is still entirely owned by lovely little Middletown, Connecticut. I visited a few weeks ago. It was my first time back in six months! I have never before spent that amount of time away from Middletown.There was a part of me that felt, without me there, that it might have just disappeared or vanished into thin air.
But no, of course it was still there. In all it's humid, thunderstorm summertime glory, smelling exactly the same as it did when I was sixteen. And even more amazing, all the people that I love had somehow survived and were just as sweet and warm and cozy as I remembered them.
My Mom, who somehow seems to only get more beautiful as she gets older.
Amy's doll Erin, who somehow became a mini woman since I left home.
Tiffany, who somehow manages to not burst into flames from her perpetual hotness.
Mojo, who somehow got even cuter AND sassier since I saw her last.
And Amy, who somehow always leaves me shocked and awed that any one person could be such a good friend.

So many beautiful, inspiring women! There was a part of me that didn't want to leave these girls, and at the same time, I was starting to miss the bay. What's a girl to do when her heart lives in two places at once? I closed my eyes really tight and made a wish that the town where my heart lives would somehow join forces with the city I am in love with and make a baby, but then I realized, if they did, it would look just like me.
love always