Beware of (sometimes) ghosts.
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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. 


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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. 

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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?

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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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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:
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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.
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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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Currents: puffy animals, geeky freaks, riot grrrls

10/21/2014

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writing: 
I've been working on the same story for a few months now--which is quite atypical for my process--because this story is resisting all conformity. Whenever I cut something out, something new arises in it's place. It has so many limbs and digits that it has taken over the writing process, while I just sit, staring at the screen, twiddling my thumbs, tongue-tied and useless. Until today! I found my sharpest pruning instruments, and have been taking great pleasure in Edward-Scissorhanding this beast into something that resembles a shape.


Newly titled, “Puffy Animals” is a story about connection, and the tunnels of tribulation and strife that we are willing to crawl through in order to feel whole. 


I shared the first two paragraphs here on 9/7, so here are the next few:

How Mom and Dad had met in the first place was a galaxy-class mystery. Mom lived in Puff, Dad in Animal—worlds on opposite ends of outer space, both geographically, culturally, spiritually, what-have-you. Maybe it was some momentary lapse in thinking: a stoned, 5-minute, interstellar romp that unluckily erupted in child. Wherever or however it happened, it did. And with the completion of coitus, every ounce of passion morphed violently into contempt. 

Rose’s world was gamey, treacherous, like tightrope walking through a briar thicket carpeted with rotting bones. Animal was located smack-dab in the asshole of a celestial Chimera: the foulest combination of lion, goat, and dragon around. It’s vein-spidered, featherless wings flapped endlessly, while fire flooded from it’s goat-cud throat. A noisy and tumultuous world, Animal required constant bravery and bawdiness of it’s natives.

 Puff, on the other hand, was stuck inside of a giant powder-puff—a glamorous and sparkling one—sheared from only the fleeciest and cleanest of sheep, and secured with a sweet, satin ribbon. The particular problem with this puff was that the talcum had gone a bit off. Back when it was originally dipped, the powder had been the finest of it’s ilk, made of crushed diamonds, rose petals, angel-wings, and moon-dust; but with time, like anything, it had slightly soured. The denizen’s of Puff noticed that their skin has begun to yellow in odd spots. Though no one mentioned it publicly (for it would not have been apropos) the smell of sallowing skin effervesced the planet’s very air.


reading: 
I'm currently re-reading Geek Love by Katherine Dunn. I like to re-visit the favorites every few years. Each time I read a book, I put my whole (current) self into it and then take from it whatever is meant to be taken at the time, which obviously changes with each read. (I also just found out that one of my besties is reading it for the first time, so I'm hoping to have a book club with her, even though she doesn't know about it yet... Hi Sam!) 


"Geek Love" is a gorgeous novel written about a family of carnival wonders: a fish-shaped boy, a tiny albino hunchback, a two-headed girl, and a telekinetic toddler. These characters are all written with grace and honesty. They are representations of our dreams, desires, and fears. At it’s core, I think that this book is about familial love, the bonds of blood, and the mistakes that people make in order to survive.

I first read this book in 2001-ish on recommendation from a real-life internet lover (who has since morphed into a character in the Pinky Promise Chronicles named Black Cloudy Day) that lived in some weird, middle-American state and was a construction worker with a soft side for poetry and candlelight. I'm not sure how I had survived 21 years of writing and life without Geek Love, but as I read the first page, something exploded inside of me and my consciousness was forever re-shaped. Since the inception of my writing life, I have always written the freaks, geeks, outcasts, and weirdoes, but it wasn’t until Geek Love that I realized that other people were doing that to. (I hadn't discovered Kelly Link or Aimee Bender yet...to name a few...) Dunn made my own writing feel valid and worthwhile; she helped me to find a home in the literary world--one that I wanted to explore to it's very core. Returning to the Binewski Carnival Fabulon has been a surreal adventure of connection, disappointment, horror, and awe. 

My re-read of Geek Love geekily coincides with the new season of American Horror Story--which just happens to be about a creepy carnival freakshow. I have only watched the first episode, but I am totally drawn in already. Creepy killer clowns; sexy bearded ladies; diametrically-opposed conjoined twins? Yes, please.



Last week, in LA, I took a little field trip to the actual house that was used in the first season of American Horror Story. It is a gorgeous, old, Victorian mansion filled with Tiffany glass and original features. Sigh.

The bright California sky disguises the horror that is inside.

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coveting: 
Today, SubPop Records released this super-rad Sleater-Kinney box set, All Together.  It includes all seven of Sleater-Kinney’s albums on COLORED VINYL and a hardcover book of unreleased photos from the band’s personal collection! Eeeep! Unfortunately, there were only 3,000 copies made and so far everywhere I have looked has been sold out. But my fingers are crossed in wishfulness. This release coincides with news about Sleater-Kinney getting back together (after almost a ten-year hiatus) making a record and going on tour. I haven’t been this excited since I discovered Heavens to Betsy (pre-cursor band to S-K)at Marooned Records (in hometown: College Station, TX) in 1994. My riot grrrl heart is exploding with joy. I've already decided that I'm going to see Sleater-Kinney play in Paris in March 2015: 35th birthday dream spectacular. 
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In other news:
Today I was accepted into the Writing and Publishing program at VCFA. I am headed to Vermont in a few weeks (after my All Hallow’s Eve romp through Salem, of course) to check out the school and meet the director and explore Vermont and find out if it is my next resting-place on this wild, cat-filled, inter-stellar romp through the galaxy that I call my life.

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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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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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Currents: gutter punx, feminism, and axes

8/21/2014

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writing:
I am doing some tweaking and re-working of an old favorite, "Johnny, Hit and Run." It’s time for this story to see the light of the moon. It's been sitting on my shelf for about seven years now, which actually makes it much easier to perform surgery on: stripping its layers, removing malignants, deleting what it may have thought was its reason for existence but has given up believing in. I am killing my darlings. 

(In Stephen King's memoir, On Writing, he says “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.” But, this sentiment has been ascribed to many of his predecessors. Who said it first?)

Meet Pinky and Johnny, two little, gutter punx in what-they-think-is-love:

When my feet started to rot inside my boots, you scrubbed my toes in a truck-stop bathroom while I smeared our names in bubbles across the warped mirrors. When scabies scaled my skin, you rubbed me down with Lidane lotion and mummified me in toilet paper--the scratchy public-bathroom kind, so rough it almost leaves splinters. I hobbled through the parking lot, naked save for paper. The truckers whistled, you bristled. There was nothing you couldn’t handle.


reading:
"The Yellow Wallpaper" (short story) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. You may recognize her name because she authored a very highly-regarded, early, feminist text: Women and Economics. This book is a staple in any Intro to Women's Studies class, and deftly describes women's predicament in the late 1800's, calling for women to transform their cultural identities. 

"The Yellow Wallpaper" is a vivid portrayal of a woman falling into madness. Not only does it critique women's social and familial roles, but also exemplifies the concept of the "identified patient." The narrator's husband is a doctor; when he tells her that she is sick, she believes him (even if she doesn't actually feel sick herself). She is  even thankful that he is taking such good care of her (even if that means locking her up in a room, and depriving her of all social/physical/mental stimulation). She doesn't know any better, she is only doing what she is supposed to do. This story is heartbreaking, but also reminds us to be firm in the face of annihilation. It is about housewifery, hysteria, and what happens when we don't have creative outlets in which to sink ourselves into.

(To read the poem that was inspired by this story, click here. It's called "charlotte.")

Click below to hear this empowering Bikini Kill song about what it means to be a woman and a poet in a society that says those two things cannot coexist in one person. 

coveting:

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Rima Hyena is a master jewelry-maker. I particularly love this axe pendant because it reminds me of Lizzie Borden--who even though she was a murderer, was standing up for some kind of freedom that she believed that she deserved. Her ghost often visits me when I am writing late at night.
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Currents: 14 y.o. girls, memories, satanic kitties

8/16/2014

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writing: 
A story about a 14-year-old girl and her experience with identity, fitting in, self-actualization, and self-mutilation. She has a very vivid imagination that flummoxes the adults in her life. She’s a sensitive soul, a witty banterer, and a lover of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Meet Lizzie:
My favorite thing about being in the hospital is that I get to wear pajamas all day. My second favorite thing is that they can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with me. I’m much more mysterious in here than I ever was in my former, clothes-wearing, high-school-student life. Back there, in the Hell-Mouth, cool kids ignoring un-cool kids is de rigueur. I was unfortunately even less cool than un-cool. I got lucky if someone called me a “witch,” the more subversive and slightly more compelling version of “weird-o.” It was nice to be marked as un-invisible every now and then. 

reading: 
The Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr. 

These stories are delightful and sad and human. I saw him read a few years ago at the Tin House Writer’s Workshop in Portland, Oregon. His words are luminous. This particular collection has a lot to do memory (as the title suggests). Are our memories what make us human? Are they more? Are they less?

Here is the NY Times review of this lovely book.


coveting: 
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Eeeeeeep!

Thanks to the awesome website WayGother for elucidating  me to the existence of these adorable prints by Jessicka Addams. 
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