Tiffany Promise blogs about life, literature, and hairless cats.

(Un)Birthday Month.

3/29/2016

March was a tornado of celebration and pain. Diametric oppositions or two sides of the same birthday coin? Yesterday, Virginia Woolf reminded me in A Room of One’s Own “By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.”

If anything, that is what my migraines are doing for me right now, they are forcing me to idle and to loiter and to let the line of thought dip deep into the stream of consciousness and unconsciousness as I move all day everyday in and out of the rooms (of my own) flicking off light switches, closing curtains, jotting down notes in notebooks, petting cats, and wishing that more raindrops were pelting my windows. Because there is something about the outside matching the inside that feels comforting.

When there is this melee on the inside and this endless sunshine on the outside, the disorientation is consuming. I want to stand on my rooftop in my giant bug-eyed Prada sunnies that take up half my face; my sunscreen so thick it looks like paste--the kind that the kid who next to you in kindergarten wouldn't stop eating; layer upon layer of cotton sheltering my skin; old-fashioned wide-brimmed, pointy witch hat on; screaming at everyone that passes by: “Put a fucking sweater on! I hate the fucking summer!”

All those fresh young things, walking around topless, bottomless, eating avocados fresh from the tree, gnawing on the pits for extra nutrients or whatever, popsicle juice dripping down their chins, flip flops slapping the concrete, just a line of zinc on their noses, suntan oil glistening on their shoulderblades, fringe peppering their everythings, particularly their midriffs—in their health, I cannot even an inkling of me.

I'm hiding from the sun, hiding from life, hiding from the cigarettes and smog and car-honking/ambulance-blaring that could accost my senses and send me into The Migraine Blitzkrieg of 2016 in the blink of a fake-eyelashed eye.

So here I am…really, wearing a sweater sewn out of four different kinds of cat hair, many mis-matching leopard prints, and unwashed hair. The right balance or natural light, electric light and candlelight, air filter plunged in and running, I'm keeping hydrated, I can't let myself get hungry or tired or cranky. I'm a damn good migraine wet-nurse.

And then, on the rare and momentous occasions when the pain has dissipated and trickled out of my earholes, when my brain is empty of sandworms and sandstorms and I'm left looking at these endless to-do lists (filled, of course) with doctors appointments and prescriptions that need to be filled and what do I do? I go to Disneyland, of course! Because in that magical fairyland of twinkle lights, white chocolate-kissed coconut macaroons, doom-buggy rides, not-really-poisoned poisoned apples, and endless unbirthday parties there is a freedom to just be.

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Let's talk about Setting, Baby. (also, Rockhaven Sanitarium)

2/22/2016

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As a writer, I spend a lot of time thinking about setting.

Lately, I’ve been hanging out in: Rhinestone (a one-stoplight town with as many pawn shops and strip clubs as gun shops) and Slumberland (a new-age mental hospital that relies on Jungian methods of dreaming as it’s prime healing modality).

Setting can be so much more important than simply a place to set your story. Setting can be a character in and of itself. To sup in Rhinestone you need a ten-foot spoon. To sleep in Slumberland you need some electrodes, sleeping pills, and a roommate with an eating disorder.

What better way to get inspired to write about really weird (but familiar-feeling) places? Travel! Field Trips! Yay! (Have you gone anywhere recently that has been major inspiration for a setting that you are writing? Tell me in the comments below!)

I first learned about Rockhaven Sanitarium by reading this Huffington Post article, which calls it “America’s first feminist asylum.” My interest was immediately piqued—so I did research, found out that Atlas Obscura was doing tours, and signed up!

The 1920’s were not a high point for mental hospitals. We’ve all heard tales (or we’ve watched American Horror Story: Asylum, which actually takes place in the 1960’s) of the overmedication, electrockshock therapy, restraints, forced sterilizations, lobotomies, disgusting living conditions, solitary confinement—the list of inhumane treatment goes on and on…

But then this woman, Agnes Richards—who worked in other psych hospitals and was dismayed by the treatment of patients—opened Rockhaven in 1926. Finally, a facility for women that was based on a completely different model: Dignity!

Looking more like a resort than an institution, Rockhaven was composed of a neighborhood of bungalows, with flowerbeds and gardens in between. Richards' aim was to create a sense of home. The women there were expected to live up to their potential—to get dressed everyday, to take part in shared meals, art projects, and field trips; to have visitors, interact with one another, and to have input regarding their treatment.

A number of crumbling starlets had stints in this bin, including Glinda the Good Witch and Marilyn Monroe’s mama. I like to imagine my own great-great grandmothers residing there, their coifs in bobby pins, lipstick on straight, kitten heels prancing down the walkways. The sunshine and air making them feel ten times better than when they checked themselves in.

When I first got to Rockhaven, I was immediately struck by how clean the air seemed (and just 13 miles outside of LA!) As I walked through the grounds, springtime blossoming around me, the trees shading me, I felt secure.

But, when I entered the first bungalow, something shifted. And, with each bungalow, my heart slowly started to get closer and closer to my stomach. Most of the buildings are in disrepair; some were so full of mold that I could barely breathe, some were so full of sadness and death that I could barely stand up. (I always think that I'm going to like abandoned, haunted places--I get excited about the weird, macabre spookiness awaiting me, but then I just end up with a tummyache.)

Maybe this has something with me being too sensitive to memory, to energy, to ghosts, but I’m not totally sure how I feel about this whole spectacle. I felt like I was seeing something that I was not supposed to be seeing.

As awesome and progressive as the treatment was (Richards was integrating art and music therapy modalities much earlier than most!), women went to this sanitarium because they were hurting, because they were grieving, because something in their life felt completely out of their control.

The energy of that grief still lingers. There is not enough flowered wallpaper or perfectly placed yellow tile in the world to get rid of that.

I am glad that this place existed—it is a monument to mental health advocacy and to feminism. I am also glad that it was able to help the women that it did. But from my perspective, we don’t need the brick-&-mortar buildings to remember the legacy of this place—we need more places like it. And we need to tell the stories of the women who were there.

Watching it crumble into something so broken and moldy is simply heartbreaking. We should be using it as a model for going forward, instead of holding onto it as a relic of the past.

I am going to insert the photos that I took, because I took them for the purpose of this blog, but there is something that seems invasive about it--like I am betraying someone’s confidence, someone’s trust, like I am exposing something that isn’t mine to expose. (This is the same way that I feel when photographing people’s tombstones, or taking photos at Alcatraz or war memorials.) I ask you to be respectful when looking through the photos below. Women lived in these rooms. These are their things, their spaces, their names.

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The Migraine Melee of 2016.

1/27/2016

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For 22 years now, migraines have cascaded my brow, ebbing and flowing like water—sometimes staying for days, sometimes receding for months. The last few months though have been the most ferocious to date. Rabid dogs nipping at the inside of my skull, there’s little relief, the rabies has set in. Before long, I’ll be foaming at the mouth.

My current life feels put on pause. The Princess and the Pea: the smallest inconsistency can send me into havoc. Headache-prevention is my bread & butter, my salt & pepper. My sensory-system’s volume is tuned to high and I’m busy encasing myself in bubblewrap so as not to be exposed to any elements (triggers).

Even in moments when I’m migraine-free, I’m fretting over my next migraine. (Like a migraine-wetnurse, I’m stuffing its mouth with sugarcube-filled cloths, rubbing whisky on its aching gums.) I could be plummeting down the haunted elevator shaft at Hollywood Tower Hotel, or pacing the grocery aisles looking for digestive enzymes, or reading “American Housewife” by Helen Ellis (the book I’m currently imbibing) or attempting to respond to a text message that has gone un-responded to for days (screens = triggers), when BAM! all I can think about is finding an icepick to jam into that tender point between my eyes, that point where all the migraine miasma radiates from, that miasma that coats my body in a film of nausea, that film of nausea that sends me to bed: mouth all sour, jaw vibrating, fingers quaking, heart barely even beating anymore. I’m hunkered down in a dark room, feather pillows propped up against all my sharp edges, cats curled into the nooks and crannies of my body, I'm sniffing peppermint essential oils, and pressing cold washcloths to my brow.

So yesterday I took my first doses of two medications that I had previously sworn off. Medications whose laundry lists of side effects make ketamine or even mountain-climbing-with-a-migraine look enticing.

This is where I’m at: My Wit’s End.

My synapses have been dunked in the deep-fryer, their ends dangling and frayed, I am attempting to salvage and soothe. There is not enough balm. I must make do with the nubs, with the cold packs, with the ear plugs. With the Goldilocks "just right" mixture of sleep+caffeine.

One of the reasons that I write is to express the inexpressible. To attempt do describe my migraines would be a fruitless effort. Little monsters thrumming on the inside of my skull? Too cutesy. A concrete eye pillow that rests upon my forehead, ever blocking out the sun? Too gothic. Toxic chemical air enveloping my brain and choking it out? Too sci-fi.

But I can try to turn my hunkered-down life into something magical and mythopoetic and just different enough from my real sick-life to make it enticing. Here’s a fragment of my pretend sick-life:

I try to make the most of my quarantine (I heard Ma call it that when she was on the phone with Missus Johns from down the way, though when I asked her what it meant, Ma told me not to worry my pretty little head about it and went back to the dishes) but I keep checking the insides of my ears for corn kernels anyway. I have to be real careful not to muss up my bandages, though. Ma might resort to duct tape if I do, and we all know how tape feels pulling out those babysoft hairs that sprout from our skins.

Ma’s been bringing me all my favorite foods: porridge with honey and strawberry preserves, carrots cooked in brown sugar, noodles with nothing but butter, sun-steeped sweet tea, and peanut butter sandwiches in the shapes of stars—which obviously taste even better in bed, and make me sometimes secretly wish to never get better at all.

I’ve got coloring books, and a deck of cards, some dolls, a yo-yo and a slingshot, and I’ve been making up games that I can play by myself. Ma was nice enough to let me borrow some of her musty old books, and even though I’ve never been too keen on reading, now that there’s nothing else to do, I’m willing to give it a try. There are big nature-y things like whales and volcanoes on the covers, and pretty ladies that look distressed. I don’t have to move very much to read, so I’m not in danger of messing up my mummy-wrappers.

I actually kinda like thinking of myself as a mummy because it sounds both rich and tragic. Ma once taught me about how in ancient Egypt, really special royal people were turned into mummies so they could use the same body for their next life. This crazy dog-faced priest would fill their corpses with weird stuff like salt and sawdust and then surround them with special worldly goods like jewelry and pets and their favorite clothes and foods. The mummies had to be real rich to pay for this procedure; the poor poor folks just got dumped in the hot sand for the birds to pick clean.

Lately, I’ve been pretending to be a rich mummy princess, though I’m having trouble deciding which things I want to take into the afterlife. I’m mostly hoping that Ma will be there; some of the dinosaur bones I scavenged from the riverbed two summers ago when the water got real low; my button collection; and Missus Beasley, my favorite doll. Though I’m worried that the Egypt Mummy Gods won’t approve of Missus Beasley because some of my blood leaked through my bandages and stained Missus Beasley’s dress and now she looks all messy and not quite fit for heaven. Good thing Ma is so good at getting stains out.

Even though I can’t be outside to enjoy my favorite kind of rain—the kind where the sun blooms freckles on my face—angel kisses, Ma calls them—while fat, sparkly rain drops wash the whole world clean, the storm keeps bringing slews of baby froglets that perch below my window and sing. And, it sprang up these tiny, white, teardrop-shaped flowers all over the place, making the whole outside-of-my-window look like a wedding. The lick on the clapboards almost sounds like wedding bells too.

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Currents: ghosts, hooves, more ghosts.

1/11/2016

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Once again, I have been dreadful at keeping up with my blog. But this time I have a good excuse: I started writing a novel! It’s about inherited trauma, healing through sleeping, and the institutionalization of sadness. It mixes fantastical and Southern Gothic elements with psychoanalysis—while investigating relational states of being. While being traditional in structure, it's quite experimental in it’s poetic nature, voice(s), and use of metaphor. I'm pretty stoked about it. I'm also stoked about the awesome writerly community that I am finding myself immersed in here in Los Angeles. Here's to palm trees and El Nino and getting lost in Book Soup and (finally) seeing X play at the Roxy!

writing:
Along with my novel, and a slew of short stories, I’m also working on a weird collection of poems about being haunted. Here’s one:

How To Get Rid of Ghosts
1. Smoke: I’ve tried the oven and the stove—got nothing but singed eyebrows and a blistered lip. A campfire would kill us both. (Plus, we’d have to collect our own kindling; there’s no furniture left to burn/marshmallows just melt.)

2. Imprisonment: I tried to grow a barrier between my gut and chest: keeping you in one place would make you less conspicuous. I swallowed fishnets, cheese cloth, milk thistle, and cotton balls. My gag reflex is gone and there are still not enough cells to thicken the placenta.

3. Starvation: I stopped eating, but then I started again. Now I’m half my size (most people get bigger with a being in their belly, but not me, not me! I suppose I shouldn’t assume you're a “being” considering you’re not much more than ectoplasm and dust). I’ve been eating handfuls of salt to save my last molecules. If i don’t save myself, you may overtake me. Completely. (Then we will both be ectoplasm and dust.)

4. Soap: My grandma taught me to douche with white vinegar & a turkey baster (all that’s in my pantry is apple cider). Unfortunately (fortunately?), pickled looks good on both of us. It doesn't even barely drown.

5. Offering: I climbed a mountain in Switzerland, but even Zeus doesn’t want your cruddy blood. I went too high, I frostbit my skin. The mountains are really just jagged teeth of sunburned myth.

6. Bleach: is no longer an option. Before, I was iron-gutted, now I'm made of moth wings.

7. Fish hooks: catch.

8. Nooses: are irreverent.

9. Hoses: are just plain un-sexy.

10. Sleep: is my only hope. Lullabies, warm milk, sleepers, smut. I even tried praying—under the stars—my knuckles still have tiny moon-shaped scars. In my dreams, I (almost) feel like myself again: less full of stink and yeast, more full of light. In my dreams, I take baths, light candles, pet the cats, stop crying. In my dreams.

reading:
I just started Samantha Hunt’s new book, Mr. Splitfoot. So far, I'm so in love with every word that I want to eat them up like spaghetti-o’s, even though I don’t know if I actually like spaghetti-o’s, there’s something familiar in the connotation, something like homesickness in their phantom tomatoey stink. I've only read 30 pages so far, but it’s teeming with all the weird stuff that I find the most comforting/compelling: creepy religious cults, scars, fucked up kids, ghost stories, birds, disconnection.

Keep an eye out for my #tiniestbookreview on my Facebook business page (https://www.facebook.com/tiffanypromise.writer) and my Instagram (sometimesghost).

coveting:
Over the last few days, I've been applying to Creative Writing PhD programs in the UK. I'm feeling myself pulled in the direction of a PhD because I'm looking for a container/guidance for this giant sadgirl/Sylvia Plath/psychological/poeticalprosey research project that has been percolating in my subconscious for the last few years (and has just now started to stick it’s sticky tendrils into my awareness). Going to school in the UK seems like a perfectly romantic, hopefully dreary, magical, ghost-filled, paradigm-shifting experience that could jolt me into my next phase of writerly, feminist, scholarly existence. Why not?

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Sweet Tooth

10/16/2015

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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: Los Angeles, gallbladder hour, Shirley Jackson, and rockstar crushes.

8/28/2015

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July was like a tornado that came out of nowhere—no warning weather or train whistles—sucked up everything in my life, garbled it up a little, and then spit it back out: phooey! I didn’t end up in Kansas or in Oz, but in some funhouse Liminal Land that looked like my life if you didn’t look too closely. With a magnifying glass, you could see this weird, phosphorescent coating like a hot-concrete mirage, but made up of day-old-croissants, glitter that had fallen off of 4th grade Valentines, cat litter, and freckles. I am working on clearing up the coating. Donations of Windex are appreciated.

I now live in a Spanish-style townhouse perched below the Hollywood sign (after selling my absurdly purple, art deco castle in SF, living in a hotel room for two weeks with four cats, and schlepping boxes of my belongings all over California). The veil of migraines has finally lifted and my third eye is wide open to the star-studded sidewalks and palm trees of around-the-corner. I spent a few weeks unpacking boxes with cardboard-dry hands, reading books every second I got, and watching movies in all the adorable, indie, architecturally-pristine theaters around town.

I adopted a weird, cow-colored kitten that wouldn’t leave my backyard after she learned that cat food tasted way better than rats and (sadly) her sister got eaten by a coyote. I celebrated a couple cat birthdays; got off anti-depressants and then got back on; got my nostrils pierced then took them out; continued working on my Sylvia Plath tattoo-sleeve; nurtured some really important relationships with the important ladies in my life; rode in a doombuggy or two (Haunted Mansion, yay!); retraced some SoCal steps while seeing many new things; had Babes in Toyland melt my face; let Morrissey break my heart, put it back together, and break it again; ate hella punk rock, vegan donuts; slept on my new king-sized mattress while covered in cats; and re-kindled my flame for Anne Sexton.

writing:

I don’t know where my inspiration has gone. It’s like it got sucked up in that aforementioned tornado, but was never spit back out. I am tinkering with things, toying with ideas, but not really putting anything solid on the page. Here’s a chunk of journaled, poetic, journal-poetry:

we’ve had our gallbladder hour
heyday--
all saucy and mossy and full of spite
i have loved you like only time can be loved
dispassionately
forgetfully
and full of sleep-in-the-eye mistakes

reading:

I’m obsessed with Shirley Jackson right now—I mean, I’m always kinda obsessed with her, but there seems to have recently been this resurgence in her popularity and her books are everywhere (not to mention this awesome collection of stories, essays, and other writings [“Let Me Tell You”] that just appeared on bookstore bookshelves everywhere and was [awesomely] edited by two of her kids).

There is just something about how Jackson embodies the shadow that makes my toes tingle. Right now, “The Bird’s Nest” is usurping all of my free time. It’s full of multiple-personality-disordered antics (because it was written before the realization that Dissociative Identity Disorder is a more apt diagnostic handle) and relational breaches, and it really elegantly performs the experience of a shattered self. This disintegration is at work in her prose (particularly the dialogue), the layout of the book, and the relationships within. Jackson’s protagonist(s)—Elizabeth/Beth/Betsy/Bess is/are treated with love and understanding by the author—even when the other characters in the novel find her/their behavior incomprehensible and/or reproachable.

Jackson displays an insider’s understanding of trauma, she knows that it has the power to immobilize, fragment, and destroy. But, she also understands healing and the psyche’s innate strive for wholeness.

This book discombobulates, upends, confuses, and teaches the reader—while doing a really lovely job of mimicking Elizabeth/Beth/Betsy/Bess’ life experience. This book is elegant, honest, and non-exploitative. Because DID is steeped in a tumultuous history of misdiagnosis, false memory, and a rejection of the diagnosis as “real” by medical professionals (mostly in response to the realizing of “Sybil”—the seminal case study of MPD—as a fraud) it is really important for works of art like “The Bird’s Nest” to exist, de-stigmatize, and teach. “United States of Tara” is another eye-opening and honest portrayal of this diagnosis.

coveting:
A record—any record—by Le Butcherettes. I’m sure that I could very easily download an album or a song on this technology-machine sitting in front of me, but I would much rather feel the vinyl in my hands, smell the paper/plastic/glue, flutter my fingers across the inserts, and do all that old-school music stuff that went along with music-listening. There is also something about the hunt that feels important: going from record store to record store, pawing through the alphabet, not finding exactly what I am looking for but finding another treasure instead. Internet shopping takes some of the Easter-egg-hunting-joy out of life.

I saw Le Butcherettes play a few weeks ago with Babes and Toyland at Riot Grill Fest (@ the Regent; Downtown LA). They blew my mind with their raw intensity, abandon and power. Watching them play felt like watching a snake slip out of its skin; like something necessary and natural, transformational, vulnerable and freeing. (And, King Buzzo [from the Melvins] joined them onstage for a cover of Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl!" Total fangirl moment of squee!)

Basically Teri Gender Bender is my new rockstar crush; she’s a total fucking force of nature.

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Currents: VCFA, squirrel nooses, Disney doom

5/17/2015

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writing:
In 39 days, I will be heading to Vermont for a 2-week residency at VCFA. I'm really stoked to be entering into another MFA program because my work feels much different than what I was doing 5 years ago at CalArts. I'm still ripping those same old demons out of my chest, running them through the washing machine, and hang-drying them in my graveyard backyard, but the way that I'm working with the material feels different: more honest and intricate, less face value, shock-value, fluff. I am spending more time picking through the meats, seeking out the pits, and less time splashing paint on pages and calling it a day. My time spent studying psychology at CIIS had a major impact on my work--I am constantly braiding in Freudian and Jungian threads, paying close attention to cycles, archetypes, and all the super weirdo subconscious material that emerges--and I am really excited to have some alien eyes peering down at my pages, unravelling their little snarl-balls of mess.

Lately, I have been re-visiting and re-working a bunch of old stories from my CalArts thesis. It feels like carving a swan out of a giant cube of ice. Pickaxing and pickaxing this really hard, cold substance, but with delicacy and grace. Or whatever I can muster that might slightly resemble grace.

Last night I completed my final draft of my blood-drenched werewolf story that’s really just an extended metaphor for female hysteria/womanhood/relationships between mothers&daughters, but could be read simply as a horror-punx monster story, if the reader is so inclined. (See first page on blog: cuts&bits&ouches: Blood Moons; posted May 15.) When I was going back over my notes, the circled "no escape" made me lol, so I thought I'd share it with you. Existentialist, much?

reading:

Our Endless Numbered Days by Claire Fuller. I must admit that I only picked this book up because it was published by Tin House Books and has these really cool torn-edge pages that make my fingers happy, but I'm so glad that I gave it a chance! This book tells the story of a young girl who is kidnapped (not exactly the right word) by her survivalist father and taken on an arduous journey (part hero’s journey, part bildungsroman) into the woods to set up house in this old ramshackle shack that he actually believes will keep them safe. This novel is constantly toying with insanity, fear, and the choices that parents make in their child's best interest. Told from the perspective of the teenage narrator looking back on her “adventure,” this book does a phenomenal job of embodying the vibe of a scared, little girl trying her hardest to be brave, to make her papa proud. Peggy (a.k.a. Punzel) puts on a brave face and learns how to be a nature-girl, all the while immersing herself in memory and song, holding tightly to her dolly--the final scrap of her past, lost life.

The power of fairytale and myth are weaved throughout this narrative, along with the bare-bones details of simple survivalist existence: making nooses for squirrels to fall into, starting fires with nothing but flint, the blood and viscera of a just-skinned rabbit, sleeping bag dreaming, and powdered egg breakfasts. Each page holds a new surprise.

coveting:
Because I am one of the founding members of the newly-formed DOOMBUDDIES (a total nerd-core Disneyland social club [now accepting applications!]) I've been working super hard to get my vest ready for 24-Hour Disneyland Day (May 22). After diligently ironing on my back-patches and obsessively placing and re-placing my pins, I am now yearning for more and more and more pins. Thankfully, Disneyland has an endless supply--as does eBay--but I need to be properly pinned in order to terrorize New Orleans Square to the best of my ability. Here’s my vest so far:

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cuts&bits&ouches: Blood Moons

5/16/2015

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I haven’t spoken to Oliver since the morning I left. All it took was a quick glance in the mirror and I was gone; I’m not even sure I remembered to lock the door behind me. The night before had been a bit off-kilter—belly cramps and slight dizziness—but I just attributed it to our leftover-Chinese dinner and my occasional bouts of low blood pressure. I fell asleep easily in our eggshell-walled bedroom, Advil PM dissolving in my gut, right leg slung over Oli’s left ankle.

I’ve heard of people not noticing the effects of lactose-intolerance, depression, allergies, even schizophrenia until later in life, but I was sure that by twenty-four, I had escaped any late-onsetting of anything. I was prepared to move into my Saturn Return, sloughing off cigarettes and late-night red wine, all the while gaining deep deep perspective. As if the gauntlet of 20-something isn’t dreadful enough, suddenly there are whiskers in the mix.

I spend so much time shaving these days, that there’s no room for any of that self-reflection mumbo-jumbo that I was (secretly) looking forward to. It’s hard enough to wash my face and brush my teeth, remember to floss, and re-apply lipstick after eating, but now I have to run this stupid razor up and down and up and down my cheeks before I can even think about going outside. Last year, I was loose-lipped and whisker-free, all I really worried about was the occasional pimple, pepper-tooth, muffin top, drunk text—amateur stuff, really—but in the blink of an eye, everything’s changed. Not only did I morph into this unholy, hairy, blood-sick creature—something that fits in better on Game of Thrones than in Northern California—but I also had to move back in with my parents. The room I grew up in is now a reptile room; I sleep in the basement.

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Currents: mermaids, Plath, and Paris.

4/3/2015

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writing:
I spent last week at the Sirenland writer’s conference in Positano, Italy. (Luckiest grrrl.) There, I workshopped my story, “Deforestation and Other Side Effects,” with the ever-magnanimous and talented and amazing, Anthony Doerr and 9 other fabulous workshop-attendees—writers of great caliber and breadth. Therefore, I am still picking away at this story’s prickly edges, and...it is very very close to being done! After today, it will be spit-shined and thorn-free (not really, I love the thorns) and ready to be affixed with a shiny red bow.

Here’s an excerpt:*
There are spiderwebs stuck in my tear ducts—sticky and gloppy, blackened with kohl. The tops of my ears have a fine layer of moss etched across them, it makes them look animal or infantile or anorexic. My microsystem is seeking something outside that it can’t find inside anymore. I feel like a failure; I couldn’t even keep my Secret Garden secret or gardeny.

reading:

I. Monstrous Affections: An Anthology of Beastly Tales edited by Kelly Link and Gavin J. Grant. This book is fun. It is collection of weird, monstrous stories by weird, monstrous writers. So far in my reading, I’ve encountered stormy kraken, a vampire boy that feeds on memory, a very badass teenage-girl-intergalactic-smuggler, boyfriends that come in boxes, and a couple of girls that let themselves get swallowed up by black magick’s eerie promises. Bedtime stories, woohoo!

II. The Silent Woman by Janet Malcolm. It feels important for me to always be reading at least one book of non-fiction. Because I have recently been re-reading all of Sylvia Plath's poetry (see #tiniestbookreview on Instagram) and am planning a Plath-inspired tattoo (replete with bees, tulips, bricks, tears, poppies, locks of hair, seashells, etc.) I picked up this book as an adjunct to my poetry-reading. Most people (who haven’t even read Plath’s poetry) know that the poetess killed herself after a stormy, affair-ridden breakup with her hubby (the poet, Ted Hughes). After her suicide, Sylvia became this weird amalgam of betrayed-woman/feminist icon, growing in power/stature so much more in the afterlife than she could have ever hoped for while alive.

When I was fourteen, one of my pen-pal girlfriends (that I had met in an AOL “punk rock riot grrrl” chat room) sent me a handwritten copy of Plath’s “Lady Lazarus.” It hit me so hard that my guts were roiling for days. This was the first poem that I fully memorized, and Plath’s work became a huge influence on my own poetic warblings. Twenty years later, I'm still fascinated by her poetic prowess, but as an adult (poetess), I'm also interested in the poet as a woman (and a mother and a wife and a daughter and a sister-in-law).

I plan on someday immersing myself into a PhD program where I can braid together my love for literature and psychology. The working title to my dissertation is “Head in the Oven, Pocket Full of Rocks: The Woman Writer and her Ever-Evolving Relationship with Madness.”

Coveting:
Paris, France. In all it's filthy, snobbish, croissant-eating, voulez-vous, fruit market, bad coffee, cobblestoned, carnivalesque glory. I was only there for one week. And one week was not nearly enough.

Dear Paris,
I want to write inside of you.
Let's make that happen soon.
Love,
Tiff

*other excerpts from previous drafts of "Deforestation and Other Side Effects" were blogged on 12/3/14 & 12/9/14—as you can see, it takes me a loooooong time to finish a story—even a little, tiny 5-page story. (Though this ain’t your average 5-pager…it’s packed with so much stuff that it’ll make your brain turn into a goldfish and swim around your cranium. I hope, anyways.)

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Positano, Italy, here I come.

3/11/2015

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So, it's actually happening: I am going to Sirenland Writers Conference in just a few short weeks! In between book-reading, I am reading all of the wonderful stories/excerpts that my fellow-Sirenlanders have submitted for workshopping. This is the biggest delight that my flu-ridden self could hope for. Thankfully, I'm getting my sick out of the way now, and I will be bright and sparkly and sniffles-free in Europe.

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(Un)Birthday Month.

Let's talk about Setting, Baby. (also, Rockhaven Sanitarium)

The Migraine Melee of 2016.

Currents: ghosts, hooves, more ghosts.

Sweet Tooth

Currents: Los Angeles, gallbladder hour, Shirley Jackson, and rockstar crushes.

Currents: VCFA, squirrel nooses, Disney doom

cuts&bits&ouches: Blood Moons

Currents: mermaids, Plath, and Paris.

Positano, Italy, here I come.

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