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Sweet Tooth

9/27/2014

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October came early this year. I could smell it on the horizon: caramel apple sweet and the frothy, mossy stink of recently-scooped pumpkin. It was the season for broken bottles and wayward hexes, cyanide-laced pixie sticks and plastic tombstones. Not love.

It wasn’t even very late on All Hallows Eve, but the trick-or-treaters had all but evacuated the streets. Only the goth kids remained outside, bleeding themselves silly in the cemetery, pretending they were celestial enough for otherworldly attentions. Tiny, make-up-encrusted goblins and zombies were sweat-soaked and sleepy, spreading their sugary booties on their living room floors, checking for razorblades, chucking out toothbrushes.

I’d been hoping for a few more little witches to clutter my unwelcome mat, their bubbling warts, hairy moles, and blacked out eyes askew. I could never figure out if they were mocking or paying homage to me, either way, I stuck recipes for bad-luck cat-eye stew in their buckets, along with frankenstein lollies and chocolate bats.

Instead of trick-or-treaters, I got one big trick. A tall, lanky skeleton-boy—nothing but black and bones—knocked on my door, right at midnight. I was taken aback, a shiver of excitement wriggled my spine. Witches generally only use boy-bones for ingredients in their brews, but this one looked different, alluring even. His eye sockets so deep and empty, there could have been whole galaxies inside. 

His lip-bones were stained pop-rocks-blue and his finger-bones were covered in chocolate trails. He didn’t have to speak, the tantalizing emptiness is what beckoned. The smell of sugar wafted from his bones, he was empty and intoxicating and I wanted in. I tend to refrain from partaking in any foodstuffs that witches in fairytales used to build their houses; it just seems tacky. Besides, I  prefer the emptiest of calories, things like frog’s breath and will-o’-the-wisp blood keep me clear-headed and astute, adept at the intricacies of the darkest arts. But something about this strange boy bewitched the witch right out of me. I was a suddenly a slovenly, piggish, human-like girl, drooling for his sweet-meats, teeth aching with the vehemence of spider-snakes. 

Trying him on for size can’t hurt, I thought hungrily. There’s enough candy in there for both of us. I pushed my head firmly against his skinny chest while wiggling my rear. Abracadabra-ing my way inside, I burrowed as diligently as a musk-mole. His ribcage shifted to accommodate my girth. Like a walnut he snapped; I plunked myself inside.

I found candy hearts in place of a real one. They practically spelled out or wedding vows. Sticky, gummy critters conglomerated in the intestinal cavity, while his kidneys and liver were made simply of cotton-spun sugar. I gobbled greedily, I couldn’t help myself. I’d forgotten how addicting sweets can be. He hit the spot. And then hit it again.

Unfortunately, my picky system quickly went into shock. The sugars and starches swelled my skin. I bloated in places I didn’t know could bloat. His chest cavity was getting tighter and tighter; I felt like nothing but a mealy sausage in the most unfortunate of prickly sausage casings. It was cutting off my circulation, cutting off my breath.

Magic works best on an empty stomach, my stomach being overstuffed, my spell-work went kaput. I caved into a candy-coma, sugar-drunk spinning on his pelvic floor. 

“Are you alright in there?” he thundered. “It feels like you’ve fallen asleep.”

“Ughghllgh” I guttered in response; unable to form words.

“Do you want me to sing you to sleep?” he asked. His voice earthquaked around me, he sounded like a god.



I’m not sure how long I slept, but I awoke with an achey start. “Dude,” I squeaked, finally getting some of my voice back. “Help! It’s time for me to get out now. Your ribs are about to gouge out my eyeballs and I need them to see stuff and stuff.” I was having a hard time articulating. Witches aren’t good with headaches and hangovers without at-hand elixirs. 

“But you feel so good inside me, Girlfriend. I’ve never been this close to anyone before,” he almost-moaned. Girlfriend? He was starting to skeeze me out. I’d only meant our interaction to be a quick romp—an hour at most. Then I’d gone and slept inside of him. Shame on you, you hungry hag! I chided myself. Of course he was already in love.

“Really though, if you don’t let me out now, I might explode or get stuck in here forever. This is ridiculous.” I was trying to be rational. He pretended not to hear.

“Pretty please with salt on top?” No more sugar for me ever again. “Please please please?” 

He resisted my begging, keeping his bones staunchly in place, not flexible like they had been to let me in.

“Mule-brained skeleton boy with your stupid, stubborn ribs,” I squealed. “If you don’t let me out this minute, you will regret it forever.” I was trying to sound terrifying and mean, but the echo of his chest cavity turned my voice Disney-witch. The only strategy I had left was a little heart-string plucking: “Boyfriend…”I cringed, “I’m scared I’ll die in here. Let me out so I can kiss you. On the lips.” I felt his insides shift for a second, contemplating.

“Just a few more minutes, Pretty. I had no idea you’d feel this good.” I waited a few minutes, but he didn’t move. I was prodded and poked, I felt like dinner. I kept whimpering and begging, but he played mute. Silently savoring my presence, he was practically in heaven.

“Boyfriend,” I yelped, in the most damsel-in-distress voice I could muster, “I’m suffocating...I can’t breathe...If you really love me…Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!” I figured if he thought I was going to die, he would have no other option but to set me free. Nobody wants a girl rotting inside of them. No matter how pretty. 

He remained firm, so I decided to chew. Bone against bone, I gnawed. My teeth are strong and cavity-free; good genes and magic can do wonders for oral health. His sternum was weakened, having cracked open a few hours ago to let me in. Plus, it was soggy with love and kinda scrawny to boot. Even still, it felt like it might take days, like starting a fire with nothing but sticks. But, I was adamant, this boy was kindling and would not get the best of me.

Once I had freed up a little space with my teeth, I could use my feet and legs to pummel and kick. Finally, there was a sharp crack, and I hit the floor like a seed. Sticky and sick, I threw up in my hair; globules of undigested sugar stuck to my lips and cheeks. 

“Baby,” he purred, “please don’t leave me.” He sounded like the kind of bad country song that could melt a chocolate heart. He clutched my fingers too tightly.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll be together for a long time still,” I said, my eyes glinting with a devilry that he didn’t even notice. Outside of his cranky cavity, I had my powers back, with the sugar out of my system, my voodoo was renewed. In less than a second flat, I had hocus-pocused his silly, stubborn skeleton into an ashy pile of soot, swept him up with my favorite hand-braided, birch broom, and put him in a glass jar next to my cauldron. The label reads: Boy Bones (nothing special after all).
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Currents: next bold moves, dirty girls, ouches

9/23/2014

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writing:
I haven’t written anything new this week because I’ve been focusing all of my creative energy into a Statement of Purpose for the Writing & Publishing program at VCFA. 

Yes, yes, I already have a couple of masters degrees. But who says there’s a limit? I've been out of school for over a year now and I felt really bummed about not buying school-supplies last month. I'm also aching for a change and a community and what better way to find these things than by going back to school? *wink* 

The program at VCFA is super innovative and creates space for genre-hopping, craft-honing, and asks the big questions about what real life looks like post-MFA. It allows students to
 imagine their work  moving beyond their computer screens/classrooms/file folders (my stories are all alphabetized and wrapped in satin and locked neatly in treasure chests) and into the world. They have neat internship and directed study opportunities and maybe I will be inspired to finally start that lit mag that I have been toying around with since the days of 90's rebel grrrl zines. 

Trinie Dalton (who has done all kinds of rad stuff, my favorite being her tiny art/short story book, Sweet Tomb, about an angsty witch that lives in a candy house and has a goofy vampire boyfriend; basically, obviously, she is one of my idols) is the director, and after having a pretty long and totally fun phone conversation with her, I felt myself being called to Vermont. There must be some powerful sirens on that tiny little chunk of a state because I feel a magnet in my gut, pulling pulling. Really though, I have no idea if I will like Vermont, or if it will like me, but I took the chance, filled out an application,  picked 20 of my favorite pages of work, packaged my little ego up in an obnoxiously-orange enveloped (which I kissed a couple times for luck) and slid it into the big, blue box of The Beyond.  

The future is wide and unknown. I'm swimming in this liminal space of not knowing what’s next and being totally excited by the possibilities. With the Autumnal Equinox, the darkness is starting to creep back in. Halloween is coming, the most fertile, inspiring time of year for me. The veil between the worlds is getting thinner, and there is a crispness in the air in some places that are not San Francisco.  This year I'm really into eyeballs and ghosts. In years past, I've had hankerings for black cats and vampires, tombstones and pumpkins, frankensteins and mummies and bats. But this year is all about eyeballs and ghosts. Oh yeah, and witches. Duh. 
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reading: Wetlands by Charlotte Roche. 

I did a quirky experiment with this book: I went to see the movie first! I ALWAYS do it the other way around and end up being super aggravated that the movie did such a terrible job of portraying my lovely little brain-burrowing friend (recent example: Under the Skin). But this time I switched it up. It was weird, and I'm glad that I did it. I have very mixed feelings about the film. There were moments where I felt like it relied a bit too heavily on shocking the pants off the audience, and then I would think, “oh, but I've never seen a movie this raw with a female protagonist, so that'
s rad,” and then I would think, “oh no, the message is getting swallowed by all this dirt,” and then I would fall lightly into a pit of despair, thinking about all the the boy-bildungsromans and feeling sad that girls don't have the same opportunity for cinematized mirrors. 

So far, I like the character in the book a little more than her big-screen counterpart. She feels more human (vulnerable, real, scared, thoughtful) while still being brash and dirty and countercultural. I don’t want to give anything away, but I feel like at its root, this story is about growing up with narcissistic, divorced parents and finding tiny moments of rebellion on a path to womanhood that is often sterilized and manufactured and repressed. 

The film actually passes the Bechdel Test—which is surprisingly rare. In case you don’t know, the Bechdel Test is this rad thing that Alison Bechdel made up to test/show gender bias in film (and therefore society). There are only a couple rules: There must be at least two (named) female characters that have a conversation with each other about something other than a man. Helen and her best friend, Corinna, have a few moments together that are only about them being together. While the scenes can get a little gory, they are still special in that blood-sister kind of way.

*Note: Alison Bechdel has written some stellar comics—my favorite being “Fun Home” a complex, coming-of-age story told through the lens of growing up in a funeral home.  She has also done a lot of other neat junk and won awards and everyone should look her up and read her and know her. 


coveting:
Wildly enough, there is nothing material that I am coveting right now. (AND I LOVE STUFF!) What I want more than anything, though, is a right wrist that doesn’t hurt. I woke up one day (about 6 weeks ago) with a sore wrist—and the pain has just been sticking since. I don’t know if it is carpal tunnel or inflammation or what, but thus far chiropractic care and acupuncture haven’t done anything to ease the pain. I've been keeping ice pads and heating pads and stinky, herbal ointments on it.  I have even forced my cats to do reiki on me by bribing them with fish and cheetos. But, to no avail. Yesterday, I took a big step and bought a super-expensive, proper desk chair. So maybe if my writing-posture gets better, it will help my wrist. Oh, writerly woes. 


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46 days until Hallowe'en

9/15/2014

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fleeting

9/15/2014

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we came together in a quick celestial pop! 
(thin-skinned and brave)
before melting, like the sunsetting sun
lapped by salted sea-song.

spring-green, neptunal imps slip in, almost undetected
while the hearth of home flickers in the distance;
memories of wintering on this hot hot day.

we read stories by would-be asteroids, dead stars, a flashlight in the dark.
you, with your green-thumb, pollen-nose—you bring spring
i, on the other hand, am practicing royalty: steeped in jewels.

together, we are grounded:
building nests of essence, nests of mother

while coveting the forbidden:
melted popsicle, hummingbird wing, dandelion bloom.

if i were sick, i’d be well now. 
oh, octagon-eyed charmer, you mesmerize.
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Submissions

9/13/2014

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Today has been nothing but editing and submitting. More editing, editing, editing, and submitting. I sent out three very different pieces to three very different lit mags.  All three magazines are lovely and daring and totally worth devouring. Check these out: Caketrain, Structo, and Revolver. 


I'm really working hard to find the right home for each story. I have been noticing more and more lately how my work is evading pigeon-holing. Some of my stories are totally slipstream, some are sci-fi, while others are gritty, realistic portrayals of life. Because I am so fascinated with mental illness (hence my work as a therapist), I feel like I am walking this weird, semi-psychotic tightrope between the real and unreal. I use magic as a metaphor for the inscrutable and unjustifiable things that happen to humans. I live in this liminal space, balancing light and darkness, sometimes falling a little deeper into the dark. 


For those of you that follow my "Currents" blog and read the tiny little excerpts that I cut (ouch!) and share with you, or if you are a friend or family member that has been forced to listen to/read the millions of drafts that my work moves through, these three stories flew away into the internet today: Eggs, Blood Moons, and Johnny Hit and Run. I wish my darlings luck, and hope that their homes are found. If not, there are more literary, internet hobbit-holes to seek out. No matter how much my fingers bleed.
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Currents: halflings, Anais, Bloodmilk

9/7/2014

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writing: 
A super sci-fi, slipstreamy story about a bisected (at birth) girl finding her other half. I'm having a lot of fun planet-hopping through a galaxy made up of really quirky, yet deeply archetypical worlds—Animal, Puff, Milk,  and Kitten are a couple of the planets that I have been hanging out on lately. (They obviously have really bad phone reception, so if I haven't returned your call, now you know why.)

At it’s core, this is a story about divorce and mental illness, and the way that splits between people can show up as splits in the self. The heroine of this story has a deep fissure in her psyche. But because Rosemary craves wholeness (like most human beings),  we get to bear witness as she hungers, fights, and journeys to reconnect, embrace, and heal. 

Meet Rose/Mary:

At birth, Rosemary was sliced almost exactly in two. But not quite. There were a few extra strands of hair and a birthmark on the left side, but the fingernails grew faster on the right. Rosemary’s parents hated one another with the viscousness of crocodiles, and refused to come to any agreement regarding their baby daughter’s custody. To keep the pair from ripping each other’s throats out, literally, the somewhat-corrupt, but very-skilled OBGYN relied on barbaric measures, bisecting the baby girl straight down the center. Each parent foolishly coveted the half that he/she was handed and never spoke again.

Rose went with Dad, Mary with Mom. The ache of absence was so intrinsically linked to aliveness, that neither half realized that their deep feeling of yearning was not necessarily part of the human condition. The edges of their selves, though expertly sliced, cauterized, and sewn, never gave up grasping for what was missing. As they grew, the half-girls only felt hunger. Hunger and spite and muddled perseverence—bubbling in the pits of their split-guts. They were allowed no communication thereafter, but were shuttled off into worlds so violently opposed to one another that there was no longer any semblance of relatedness left, except, of course, that their features almost-matched.


reading: The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan.

I just started this last night, so I'm only on page 28, but I'm already passionately in love with this book. This is Fagan’s first novel, and I guess before this she published some poetry, which totally makes sense, because the prose is filled with poetic devices like metaphor, music, made-up words, etc. The story is about a young girl stuck in the foster care system. The narrator, Anais, is tough, vulgar, and a little bit crazy. She is the kind of character that makes my heart beat faster.

I bought this book at a super rad bookstore called Munro’s on the main drag in Victoria, B.C. I was surprised that I'd never run into it before--being a constant bookstore browser--but I'm so excited to have found this fresh, new voice. Fagan has received a bunch of awesomely positive press for this first book and she has won a bunch of cool awards and junk. Yay for young writers making big splashes!

coveting: 
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I've been wanting this mini-planchette necklace for months now! (Adding to my Amazon X-mas Wish List as I type!) I have the regular-sized one, but this one is so sweet and subtle and delicate. Eeep! Yesterday, I went to see Magic in the Moonlight, Woody Allen’s newest film. How could I miss out on spiritualism and Mr. Darcy together in one film?! (a.k.a. Colin Firth—who played Mr. Darcy in the mid-nineties A&E version of Pride and Prejudice—the only version really worth watching, in my opinion.)

As I was watching the movie, I was thinking a lot about spirits and ghosts and seances and October—which is right around the corner—and how stoked I am to be going to New England this Halloween because it feels like a place where the veil between worlds is especially thin at that time of year.
 
Go look at (and buy!) Bloodmilk's lovely, esoteric, haunting jewelry. Each of her pieces is handcrafted with so much love that they almost vibrate. 

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Currents: poetry, Weetzie Bat, and Disneyland

9/1/2014

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writing: 
I don’t have a story currently in-process (oh no!) because I just got back from the lovely British Columbia, and I'm still trying to reacquaint myself with my real-life (cat pee, empty refrigerators, too much traffic, not enough incense, sleep). But, I have managed to squeeze out a few new poems--even with a mushroom-scented, hairless cat refusing to leave my lap. 


Take a peek:

if you keep on cracking, you might break
we’d all go tumbling out like
a fruit basket abruptly upturned: 
i am a lemon, he is an apple. 
we can be cut into slices, pressed into juice,
left pulpy and seedless in our lack of forgiveness.

reading: 
Pink Smog by Francesca Lia Block. 


For those of you that know me, you probably know that FLB has been one of my biggest inspirations ever. She is the reason that I started writing when I was 14, the reason that I moved to Los Angeles for graduate school. In fact, whenever I return to LA, it’s like her characters are at my side: skating with me down Venice Blvd., taking me for Oki Dogs, whispering fairytales in my ears, or reminding me what it feels like for my nerves to jangle like plastic skeleton jewelry. I am almost always reading (re-reading really) one of her books along with whatever other book I am reading that week. (I generally read her during my daily bathtub rituals.) Her characters are my friends, brothers/sisters, muses, and reflections. I was nicknamed Witch Baby (a character from one of her novellas) 19 years ago, and there are still people who call me that today. I wish I had enough knuckles to memorialize the nickname on my fingers. Maybe my toes? 

Pink Smog is the story of how Weetzie Bat became Weetzie Bat. It chronicles her junior high experience, and is filled with barbie-doll-magic spells; palm trees twinkling under the LA sun; drunk, movie-star-wannabe mothers, and all the uncomfortable anecdotes of growing up that FLB is so adept at portraying. At first, I was skeptical of this book because the Weetzie Bat books are so very close to my squirmy, little heart and prequels can be daunting in their ability to effect and or/tarnish. But, really, I am pleased to read Weetzie as a younger, less-cool, less-divine being--just a regular tween, forced to grow up too quickly and take care of more than her little hands were built to manage. I'm thoroughly enjoying this magnifying glass into her early insecure attachments, her experiences of being bullied, and the coping mechanisms she finds hidden within that guide her  into a magical, powerful girlhood. Weetzie is astounding in her ability to make connections even in moments of deep darkness. Weetzie Bat is my hero. 

Coveting: 
All of the new Haunted Mansion merchandise that has been scheduled to appear this Fall! Hopefully some of it will be available on October 13-14, when I hop over to Disneyland for a quick and random Halloween-infused trip to my favorite place on earth. (This trip just happens to coincide with a Hello Kitty exhibit at the Japanese American National Museum in LA.) 

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Dear You,

9/1/2014

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Dear Heartache,
This is about my pink eye,
my small feet,

and the way I smell when I wake up
wrapped in my own arms.
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