things

1. I finally started xmas shopping today. Yes, today. Good thing my list is short and my bank account, sadly lacking. One day, one store. That oughta cover it.

2. Somebody just totally spammed my cell phone and sent me a text asking if I needed $ as I was writing #1. Creepy.

3. Every time I get two days off in a row, I develop a vicious head cold. I'm pretty sure a family of icky green blobs has moved into my sinuses and are watching reruns of NCIS like, right now.

4. I would (very much) like it if NyQuil would develop a carbonated beverage. Rather like Mountain Dew, but with more kick.

5. Many people (but not all people) are sucky. This gives me the blues and makes me want to join a nice quiet nunnery, where everyone has taken a vow of silence and we make homemade champagne and raspberry jam while wearing full habits but with bare feet because we're secretly dirty hippie nuns.

6. I would like to abandon all things. That's right ALL THINGS. I am tired of you. Let's hear it for the glory of NO THINGS.

7. I secretly want to make a tuna noodle casserole with peas and eat the whole thing with Pillsbury crescent rolls and a big fat glass of Chardonnay. Because I am a classy gourmet and shit.

forthcoming

This stunning cover art was created by Renee Alberts and will (soon, very soon) lend an extraordinary bit of beauty to my new chapbook, A Wicked Apple, forthcoming from the super-awesome-and-fabulous Hyacinth Girl Press.


This makes me happy.

In other news: it's vacation week! I'm getting paid to stay home! I feel just like Tyler Durden.

I won't be making soap from stolen body fat or anything, but whatever. There will be much cooking, cleaning, and errand running, because I'm fabulous like that and my life is so incredibly glamorous.

I do plan to catch up on my netflix queue of horror...

I thought this one was actually really creepy. I was expecting it to suck. It didn't.

I do, however, wish they had thought to include subtitles for the conversations in Polish. What's up, moviemakers?

Oh! P.S. I'm attempting to play with Twitter again. I have no idea why. Nevertheless, you might follow me. Linkage, (scroll wayyyyy down) stage right ----->

I do bad things.

Tonight I am reading poems about taxidermy, poison, and feral children. Unless I change my mind and decide to read poems about wicked robots. That could happen.

Also: I just heated up some leftover gravy and poured it over texas toast. I'm sure that wasn't particularly good for the cardiovascular system and whatnot. I don't care.

Time to face the strange...

I am not dead.

I just haven't felt a strong compulsion to talk to myself. Or write weird shit.

This has been my cozy little internet home for almost 5 years. Sometimes I think I should move to tumblr or wordpress, just to prove I can be stylish, but then I get lazy and complacent.

I have been working and sleeping when not mired in all things semi-domestic, such as making delicious sandwiches with tangy cheese. I feel the need to reinvent myself, although this will not involve wearing a pantsuit made of beef jerky and a beehive hairdo.

Prepare for reentry.

We Interrupt this Nervous Breakdown to Bring You a Blog Post

I just don't want to do anything these days. No chi.

I suspect there is some kind of weird energy simmering beneath the ennui.

I dreamt there was a jungle at the center of my workplace and it was populated with killer gorillas. There were men with bowie knives weaving in and out between the hardware aisles and the dense foliage. It was creepy. I wanted to join them, but had no weapons. I'm sure the dream translates like this:

I am lame and lacking in various kinds of physical and mental prowess.

**

Re-Watching: Buffy, as the image of the female warrior inspires me during these periods of total incompetence. I'm skipping ahead to the final showdown. I think I need to Re-Watch Battlestar Galactica, too. Starbuck is so badass.

Reading: Sappho's Leap by Erica Jong. I can't decide whether I like it or not.

Baking: Chocolate Cream Pie. It's pretty.

Oh, hello there.

Oh! I had an interview up at PANK this week: check it.


Also: I have a blemish on my chin the size of a small planet. I have decided to name it Goneril after one of King Lear's more unpleasant daughters. I have come to believe this disfigurement will be permanent.

Life grows more complex and exhausting by the minute. I feel depleted. I might feel less depleted if I had some sugar cookies and like, a whole week to myself.

***

Go on. Take everything. I want you to.



That's about it.

Things

1.) I love the smell of baked potatoes.

2.) Iron Man 2 was disappointing, but I still love Sam Rockwell.

3.) I wish I did not want to spend my day off taking naps, but I do.

4.) I wonder if it is horribly anti-feminist to consider purchasing a pair of spanx?

5.) The special effects in movies from the '80s seem hilarious to me.

6.) Vending machines should not sell sandwiches, especially if they are made of egg salad.

on my one month anniversary of blog silence...

What can I say? I've been busy writing strange snippets in the personae of various real and fictional women. I've been eating cake. I've been reading murder mysteries and watching horror movies about cannibals and aliens and cannibal aliens. This keeps me very busy.

I do other things that are not remotely interesting so I shall not mention them here.

If you are reading this post, I probably adore you. I probably miss you.

xoxo

S.

Normalcy is Overrated

I am thinking about the nature of solitude and wondering if it is quite normal that I don't like to go out too much or talk on the phone at all but prefer to send people goodies in the mail or little random text notes for fun. I am not hypersocial, admittedly. Sometimes, people describe their social lives and I think that sounds exhausting.

I don't want anyone to call me at 10 p.m. and ask me if I want to go out because I probably don't. I want to wear my pajamas and watch movies by myself and maybe scatter some poems out on the floor and put them in some sort of meaningful order. I want to bake elaborate cakes while listening to Nirvana or Bob Marley or maybe Simon & Garfunkel because it reminds me of my childhood. I want to fold towels and putter about the house and rearrange my bookshelves. I don't want to gossip or hang out in bars except perhaps once in while especially if there will be poetry or dancing.

I like to shop alone, eat lunch alone, watch movies alone. There is a small list of people whose company I really enjoy, but that's a sometimes thing. Does anybody else like to do things by themselves? Am I a total crabass or something? I don't mean to be.

I AM looking forward to the Poetry Brothel next weekend because the people there will be awesome and many of us come not as real people but as alter egos, personae. I love this shit. I wish I had an actual MASK or something.

The new manuscript is getting all cross-genre, flash-fiction and whatnot. I'm totally excited about this. I want to write noir-ish crime stories and drink bourbon from a flask. I want to wear a fedora at my desk. I want a black cat named Ghost and a mysterious neighbor that will involve me in some kind of dramatic intrigue.

Things that just don't interest me but seem to fascinate everyone else:

Popular Television
Breast Augmentation
Other People's Romances
Being Wealthy
Baseball
Other People's Vacations
Strangers with Babies
Dieting
Date Movies
Celebrities



(It's totally cool that most people like things from the aforementioned list. This is not, by any means, a criticism. Just an observation.)



Things that do interest me that nobody wants to talk about:

Exotic Teas and Spices
Cyborgs
Esoterica
Corsetry
Foreign Horror Films
Words People Never Use in Conversation, But Should
The Evolution of Chuck Norris as a Popular Internet Trope
Mythology

Freud Would Say That Sometimes a Muffin is Just a Muffin.

Last night I dreamt that I was stranded at a bakery. There were blueberry muffins and raspberry-lemon muffins and cinnamon scones with vanilla icing. Yes, they were delicious, but still I did not want to stay. I needed someone to drive me home but had no hope of rescue. It was sad. A sad, sad dream with lovely baked goods.

This isn't particularly interesting, I suppose. It is a departure from my usual dream life, being almost as mundane as my real life. This is where I would sigh if I were speaking aloud.

I am writing a poem that is kicking my ass in a bad way as it is almost what I imagine but not quite there. It involves taxidermy and massive amounts of internet research. Yes.

That's pretty much it. I cut my hair short and most people don't like it but I DO. So there.

I am still propping myself up with strong coffee and my stomach isn't very happy about it but I cannot properly caffeinate my brain without angering my gut. This is a simple fact of my existence.

I need to find some new obsessions. I am tired of my old ones.

Oh yeah, *PoEtRy*

Two new poems in the February issue of PANK.

The Chicago Poetry Brothel is ON. March 5 at the House of Blues:



I wrote a couple of new pieces yesterday. I also spent some time watching Picard eat a sandwich and talk about being stabbed through the heart on youtube.



I want to send some things HERE.

This poetry thing can actually be fun, you know.

***

I cut my hair short and nobody likes it except me. Ha. I need more time so I can bake fresh ginger pound cakes and tiny semolina shortbread cookies with sea salt and maybe an apple pie. This is a lame thing to say but damn I am tired. My feet feel like someone's been pounding spikes into my heels. I should probably buy some proper shoes, not cheapo ones from the discount store (but not walmart as I ABHOR walmart and have not set foot in one for fifteen years, Kay?) as the gel inserts aren't a substitute for good shoes although I had hopes that they would be...

I have my eye on a new corset. With buckles! Very steampunk.

Alas. I will probably buy some practical shoes instead.

Watching: Pushing Daisies
How did I ever miss this? It's freaking fabulous. It's like a dark fairy tale (aren't they all?) with pie.

Reading: Wikipedia entries about weird crap


Feeling: Totally Lame and disconnected from my former Coolness and such

Notes from my collapsing ventricles:

My new sleep patterns leave me feeling strange and disconnected from my dreams.

We do not typically celebrate Valentine's day at my house. Still, I would love a chocolate cake right about now.

I am drinking coffee and contemplating art for bb which should almost be called the SPRING issue, as the weather is downright balmy and I am perpetually behind schedule.

There is a pot of chili on the stove and there will be warm cornbread with honey and this makes me happy.

I have not worked on my manuscript for two weeks. I need to get back to it, but tend to spend my days off cleaning and resting and whatnot. I cannot afford a writer's retreat but perhaps I can create my own in a tiny room filled with books and silence where I can play with the chimeras in my head. Anything is possible.

Watching: Absolutely Nothing

Reading: Your Mind

Feeling: Like an Empty Aerosol Can

Eating: Lots of Cara Cara Oranges, which I don't want to share with anyone, plain bagels with cream cheese.

Scary Vending Machine Item of the Week: Hard-Boiled Eggs

Februaryness

I had a long elaborate dream about working that actually felt like work and it was followed by a second dream about eating milkshake flavored ice cream with hot fudge sauce. It was really great ice cream, even though it wasn't real.

I am (finally) working on the winter issue of blossombones. All final selections have been made and I'm getting my shit together. I love these poems. Love them. Can't wait for you to read it.


I am feeling reckless. I would like to cut my hair short and wear a vintage dress with a torn hem.

!

So I am checking in after a long hiatus to say that the aliens were quite gentle with me, although I do hope I don't get abducted again for at least a couple of years.

I've just finished reading My Year of Meats by Ruth Ozeki and think it was wonderful and absurd and disturbing and all those good things a novel should be. I am also reading In A Time of Violence by Eavan Boland. I am reading to remind myself that we still have souls, that the world is not so bereft as it might seem. Everyday life can really crush one's chi, you know.

I made big fat buttermilk waffles this morning and it was not unlike eating cake for breakfast.

purple dresses and cat's head biscuits

So, I love the steampunk jacket but it just doesn't suit my dress for the brothel. Alas. I will make something work for tomorrow. I will! I plan to wear a glamorous headpiece and something purple so it's all going to be okay. I have to leave for work shortly but I would rather read books and take a hot bath and wear pajamas and maybe drink some red wine and have a fire going in the fireplace but this is all too decadent so instead I will do other things and then I will come home and fold laundry and crap like that. I found a recipe for something called Cat's Head Biscuits and I want to make them because they look big and fluffy and slightly craggy and no cats will be harmed in the making of said biscuits, just buttermilk. They would be awesome baked in a cast iron skillet, yes? Oh yes.

I am nitpicking my way through the last handful of poems for the winter issue of blossombones and then we're on hiatus until August. HIATUS! I like the sound of that word. I need to de-stress. I am a tangle of knots and weirdness. Also: I am still an aquarius, no matter which zodiac calendar you follow. This makes sense to me.


Watching: Eurkeka, Farscape, Season 1

Reading: Too much freaking email

Feeling: Wiggy


Scary Vending Machine Item of the Week: A microwaveable burger, aptly named "Big Az" and topped with a cheeselike substance.

for real.

notes from the land of bread and honey

I just baked a loaf of bread--not a baguette or a boule, but a plain old loaf of sandwich bread that goes in a rectangular pan--and I'd forgotten how delicious that can be slathered with honey butter still warm from the oven. I ate two pieces, which I kind of regret because I feel over carb-o-fied but that's okay. The house smells like yeast and it's just so nice and homey but still, the anxiety lingers. I hate this anxiety. Also: I DID NOT get the correct item shipped for my super-awesome steampunk outfit that I want to wear to Saturday's Poetry Brothel but the mail order joint is shipping me the right one (I hope) tomorrow so all may not be lost. Or I might not look particularly Victorian. We'll see. I have work to do but I don't want to do it.

The last few held-over-for-consideration poems are calling me but I feel unfocused. If you haven't heard back from me yet, it's because I like your stuff. Expect to hear from me soon, soon, soon.

I would like to accomplish something fabulous, but I have no idea what that would be. I have all kinds of mad-awesome skills that nobody cares about and that will never lead to a sophisticated job where I might wear really good shoes and everyone is required to be polite, like, all the freaking time. Still, I can bake bread and write poems about mass murder and craft a bitchin' metaphor. That's useful.

I am feeling impatient. I need to learn to tolerate humans better. I'm trying.

A tree of heads, or some such thing...

Last night I dreamt that I plucked out a long, gray hair the diameter of a small sapling with little threadlike branches of hair growing out from the shaft and wondered if I might plant it in the yard and grow a brand-new head or some such thing. Blogger's spellcheck does not like the word "dreamt" nor does it like the word "spellcheck" but I really don't care.

I am hell bent on finishing final selections for the winter issue of bb and for finally getting back to writing some of my own damn stuff too. Poetry Brothel is ONE WEEK AWAY. I have ordered brand-spanking-new steampunk gear and I hope it freaking fits because I am feeling very outsize these days, as if my body has no boundaries and just flows around me like milk. This is probably an illusion, but a disturbing one nonetheless.

I wish I could just wear costumes every day instead of regular clothes.

I am drinking coffee again and this is probably bad. My stomach is going to rot away. I just know it.

Resolved.

:: A 2011 post ::

1.) I will not talk about how freaking busy I am. It's kind of annoying when people list all the tedious crap they do and say "Look at me! I'm SO busy." I'm totally guilty of this, by the way. Totally, totally guilty. The guiltiest.

2.) I want to be the girl with the most cake.

I Would Like Some Cake.

That is all.

Phobos & Demos

I woke up today feeling like I might just start freaking out and never stop. I cannot do everything. Something, somewhere must give but I don't know what that will be.


Last night I dreamt that my son was a bag of salt I'd been hauling around all this time and that I had been imagining him for the last twenty years and only NOW just realized that he wasn't real. I took him out for ice cream and suddenly I was sitting on a park bench, holding two dripping ice cream cones, trying to feed one of them to a 50 lb bag of salt.

Later on, I dreamt I was trying to eradicate a plague of head lice roughly the size of dimes--not on my own head, but rather, the heads of strangers.

It is time to deconstruct Christmas (in the literal, rather than the literary sense) and this always makes me sad.

I need to carve out more time for writing & editing. I need to stop drinking sweetened beverages. I need to stop talking so damn much. I feel like I am made of vanilla pudding, that I am soft & bland & utterly without structure.

My January horoscope recommends that I prepare to be wildly successful.




At making pudding, probably.




Watching: LOST, Season 6 (again)

Reading: Men, Women and Chainsaws by Carol Clover

Feeling: distinctly pudding-like with a touch of the vanilla moon.