Just got a piece published in the rad, delicious, puddle wonderful journal Mud Luscious, among some amazing writers. Click on issue 16. Enjoy!
Love Letter
The lovely Jessica Chrastil made a postcard out of one of my little stories. She prefaced it with "I want to make this into a postcard and send it to myself." Amazing.
Radical & Beautiful
Here is my friend and conspirator D.W. Lichtenberg reading from our collaborative book project, We Are So Beautiful To Us. Can you guess which poems are mine and which are his?
BALTIMORE
Someone bites a chicken wing and we're talking about Ranciere. They've poured our gin and sodas in the wrong kind of glasses but we're okay with that, as long as it stays this time of day forever. What about Montessori educations? Joe asks. What about the body with no orifices? That French theory shit is shit, he's saying before we have time to answer. His mustache is smothered in sauce.
Earlier we swam in a quarry and our hair is tangled in the way that only water can do. We also looked at art, saying to each other: Remember when we used to make things? Someone had made a sculpture from stuffed animal bunny rabbits. It made us nauseous, so we left.
Across the table Zoe and Lindsey are getting into a deep conversation. About what, we can't hear. The Montessori model is all about prepared environments. You give the kids an environment and see what they do with it, see how they play.
Zoe says, I've been working a lot with clouds.
I'm thinking, Aren't we all.
We Still Like "Columnists"
I just started blogging over at the awesome, radical, newly digital literary hotspot We Still Like. My column is called WSL:NYC (We Still Like: New York City). Check out my first post, where I talk shit about making money, here.
Friday Night Lights
I am reading this Friday in Bayridge. I'll be reading all new work. More details and bios of the other readers here.
Be There or Be Square
NYC folks: come to Forrest's show tomorrow night!
Poster by the beautiful Ainslee McAndrew.
Shorty Swing My Way
(new story)
Shorty was called Shorty because she was short. So short, in fact, that she couldn't sit on a bar stool. So short that she had to wear jeans made for kids. Her jeans had rhinestones around the pockets. She had black flats covered in black glitter. They were kids size thirteen.
Janice got on the train with Shorty. They were going to a show in the Lower East Side. It was a band Shorty had loved as a teenager, and now they were back, on some sort of reunion tour. Shorty had just recently shaved the side of her head. Not the whole head, just the side, which made her feel good, sort of punk rock. She had tattoos all over her arms and back. Her fingers were smaller than kids fingers, but she had those tattooed, too. One set of fingers said LOVE when she made a fist. The other said FUCK.
Janice treated Shorty just like anyone else, which was why they were best friends and did everything together. When the kid on the bench across from her stared at her because of how short she was and probably how ugly, Janice just kept talking, looking directly into Shorty's eyes and talking and talking about her boyfriend Dicky and what a dick he was about that whole Tanya thing.
At the show, Shorty had to stand on a table to see the stage. She was used to this, or else sitting on someone's shoulders. The boys often offered to put her on their shoulders, and it felt good when their necks rubbed between her legs, like a pleasant electric shock. The band was old now and not how Shorty remembered them. They were quieter and less fierce. Someone called her a midget and someone else spilled their drink on the part of her head that had just been shaved. She was not having a good time until she found Janice, who grabbed her hand and pulled her to the front of the crowd.
Janice had bangs that were died primary color red and looked like a toilet paper roll. Shorty, Janice said over the noise of the stupid band. You look hot tonight. Shorty smiled because Janice wasn't the kind of person who would just say something like that for the hell of it, she would say it because it was true. She felt the urge to get on stage with the band and dance.
Ale-Ale-Jandro
Alejandro Zambra and I are going to make babies out of our words.
The babies will have bonsai trees for heads, and prosthetic arms.
They will be shorter than average.
People won't hang out with them until they hit puberty, when they will become popular and well-read.
Alejandro and I will share custody. I will have the kids during the mornings, Alejandro will take them at night.
They will grow up and mature as we grow up and mature.
At the same time they are maturing they are also growing younger, smoother, and more vibrant.
Hair Dos & Don'ts
HAIR DOs
Do style my hair into a moose. Do style it into any animal of your choosing. Do touch my hair anytime, do take it in your hands. Tie my hair into your noose. Climb up it. Rapunzel the shit out of it. Do style my hair into a symbol. Do braid it into your personal exclamation point. Curl it out. Flip it. Flip out on it. Take my hair into your hands. Style it into a stethoscope. Put it up to your chest and breathe.
HAIR DON'Ts
Don't let my hair get flat or limp. You can make sure this doesn't happen by keeping your knuckles close to my skull, by lifting at the roots. You can make sure this doesn't happen by keeping your fingertips rubbing at the base of my hair and staying close enough to smell the grease.
Depression Session
Below is a conversation with Miss Sarah Fontaine, my wonderful friend, co-conspiritor in factorycompany, and editor in chief of the fantastic magazine Actually People.
*amendment: I was recently informed by Miss Katherine Fontaine that Sarah is no longer editor-in-chief of APM. See below for details.
s: so i was thinking we could make a list of things that are depressing
*amendment: I was recently informed by Miss Katherine Fontaine that Sarah is no longer editor-in-chief of APM. See below for details.
"As I am sure you are aware, Sarah Fontaine, is not the Editor-in-Chief.
She was at one time the Co-Editor in chief, but recently due to being extremely hung over on publishing day (see interview with Constance Hockaday in April/May 2011 issue to better understand the quality of her work while in this state) she was demoted to Assistant Editor-in-Chief."
s: so i was thinking we could make a list of things that are depressing
things that are not depressing
and things that are sometimes depressing
me: SO into it
im gonna start now
10:30 AM s: Things That Are Depressing:
microwaves
I meant Things That Are Always Depressing
my stepdad
me: carpet
s: plastic bags
me: Four Loco
s: SUVs
what's that?
10:31 AM me: hahah
its an energy drink alcohol drink
s: energy drinks are ALWAYS depressing
me: stained glass
10:32 AM me: PC's
s: music association-memories with really good music that you had amazing sex to that now you can't listen to anymore
YES!
I LOVE THE WAY YOU THINK
me: i love the way you think :)
s: facebook
me: when people dont think the way we think
s: when people don't get jokes
me: elevators
s: keens
me: HAHAHA
velour
hair gel
s: yes, although sometimes it can be funny
yes, but i've been thinking i want to pomade my hair and make it like 50s boy style lately
so don't judge me if i do that
me: playgrounds with no grass
s: fox news
s: girls in high heels and dresses without a jacket waiting outside of a club freezing trying to look hot
me: the sound of a TV
s: the reflection glow of tv on people's faces
s: someone on another coast is depressing
me: its true
s: throwing away vegetables because they went bad in your fridge
10:36 AM because you weren't there to cook them
me: San Jose
s:union square
me: Forever 21
s: new shoes
10:37 AM not always, but especially when they're perfectly clean
although i have some new clarkes right now and i don't think they're depressing
s: Things That Are Not Depressing
me: professional interviews
wait that was for depressing
s: the scarves my gramma just gave me
10:38 AM depressing: professional anything
depressing: being a tourist
me: COFFEE
(not depressing)
s: yes
cream in the coffee
me: coffee with you
s: yes
record players
me: so much cream in the coffee with you
s: yes
depressing: how lighting candles feels cheesy
me: bodies of water (not depressing)
s: but they're really awesome
yeS!
10:39 AM bottled water: depressing
me: YES
s: i'll like these lists to be vertical, so the bodies of water and bottled water can be right next to each other
and it can be a venn diagram
with the sometimes in the middle
like new shoes, maybe
overhead lights are depressing
10:40 AM
s: how cheap you can get semi-good stuff at ikea is depressing
s: how no one reads literary journals is depressing
how target is selling food now
s: the moment when you realize you don't want to have sex with your boyfriend all the time anymore
10:41 AM or your girlfriend
me: sunglasses=not depressing
me: the shortest shorts in the world
not depressing
10:42 AM how writing can be like making out
not depressing
meadows=not depressing
s: voice mail messages from people you love are depressing because you know you won't call them back enough or in time or whatever and you don't even want to talk on the phone but you know you want to talk to them
yes meadows!
me: blogging = depressing
me: (even though it is my life)
s: yes, blogs!
10:43 AM
me: supermarkets = depressig
s: costco
depressing
me: Costco Pizza
s: buying things in that big of quantities
me: people that go on cruises
s: yes costco pizza most of all
cruises are SO DEPRESSINg
luxury is depressing
10:44 AM malibu 30000$ cars depressing
me: studartesses
s: the way people talk to studartesses
me: curling irons
s: curlers
me: zoos are depressing
10:45 AM rainbow sherbert is both depressing and not depressing
s: yes to that
me: Things That Are Both Depressing And Not Depressing
s: how hot ciara is in that video ride it with ludacris could be in the middle column depending on the day
me: 5am
s: yes!
4pm
me: YES!
10:46 AM s: exboyfriends
me: fog
s: being hung over
me: having a boyfriend
s: being single
weddings
me: hahah
god yes!
s: being a bridesmaid
me: being lazy
s: which i am too much this summer
yes
10:47 AM me: talking on the phone
s: techno music
maybe that's always depressing
me: farawayness
s: yeah horizon lines
me: being alone
s: birthdays/getting older
10:48 AM family
me: eating shitty food from gas stations on road trips
s: yes
road trips
me: the color beige
s: oh that's almost always depressing
me: (i have beige fingernails right now)
haha
s: oh wait that's NOT depressing
that's amazing, like the hair gel thing
10:49 AM depressing: the number of stair cases in my parent's house: 2
me: breaking your phone
s: swimming pools
me: those floaty things in pools
10:50 AM
me: market street
poetry readings
10:51 AM
me: the internet
s: yes! people winning literary awards
me: yogurt parfaits
s: oatmeal
me: canteloupe
s: iceberg lettuce
me: when people cut up canteloupe for parties
s: yes!
10:53 AM
me: YOU ARE NEVER DEPRESSING
Summer Continues...
JUNE 10: Molly
The neurologist is French. The women who work in his office are French. His hair is French, his politics are French, and the electric shocks he sends through people's nerves are very, very French. Everything is French it seems, save the girl, who sits on the doctor's cot uncomfortably, a wounded and embarrassed American, wearing a saltine-colored gown and worrying about what is beneath it.
Someone has painted the French office like a Florida seashell: pale pinks and lazy lilacs. Yellowed air conditioning units and sinks with no water in them. The blinds are the kind from old people's houses or offices, long slats that salute and then march forward like an army of shade, keeping the light from the East River out of the girl's eyes. The girl lays there and lets the neurologist insert long needles into her flesh. She watches small moments of blood happen on her arms and legs.
You are braver than most, says the neurologist, basking in his Frenchness, relying on it as a way to make her feel good. For a moment, it does. She wipes her face. She tells him Thank you. She tells him Thank you for telling me I am braver than most. She tells him Thank you for being the first person who has been below my skin in a long, long time.
The neurologist is French. The women who work in his office are French. His hair is French, his politics are French, and the electric shocks he sends through people's nerves are very, very French. Everything is French it seems, save the girl, who sits on the doctor's cot uncomfortably, a wounded and embarrassed American, wearing a saltine-colored gown and worrying about what is beneath it.
Someone has painted the French office like a Florida seashell: pale pinks and lazy lilacs. Yellowed air conditioning units and sinks with no water in them. The blinds are the kind from old people's houses or offices, long slats that salute and then march forward like an army of shade, keeping the light from the East River out of the girl's eyes. The girl lays there and lets the neurologist insert long needles into her flesh. She watches small moments of blood happen on her arms and legs.
You are braver than most, says the neurologist, basking in his Frenchness, relying on it as a way to make her feel good. For a moment, it does. She wipes her face. She tells him Thank you. She tells him Thank you for telling me I am braver than most. She tells him Thank you for being the first person who has been below my skin in a long, long time.
JUNE 10: Jessica
Levi says if I love God I will learn to love myself.
I already love myself, like, a lot, I say, or sometimes anyway, and he says, If you’re truly able to love yourself then you love God as well.
Levi, I say, what do I have to do with God?
He’s busy fingering the rosary he brought back from his most recent pilgrimage to Africa, it radiates whiffs of street fried patchouli, the silky red tassles sweep against the back of his hand and he hums.
Do you still have the rosary I brought you? he asks. That was a very special one, given to me by a sick monk in Swaziland.
Of course, I say, its hanging near my mirror at home, I see it every time I pluck my eyebrows. And I think of you.
Aw, he says. You should think of God. Think of God and I loving you together.
Do you love me? I ask, Cause I remember when I used to love you, you couldn’t stop talking about that Catholic girl in your seminary class who always wore a nun’s habit. Virginia or something. Was she even a nun?
Victoria, he says, her name was Victoria. And, no, she wasn’t a nun, she just utilized all paths to seek guidance from the Lord. But I’ve always loved you. I just needed time to recover from my sordid past. I was seeking reform in the form of Victoria.
It might be too late to love me now, I say. You might have missed your chance.
He fingers his rosary. There is always the path of forgiveness, he says reproachfully, and besides, we’d have some damn hot kids darling.
And he smacks me on the ass.
Tender Moments
If you were in a park in the middle of Manhattan under a canopy of trees drinking gin and soda with your best friend and your other friend strolled up in a white onesie with THIS copy of Tender Buttons in her straw shoulder bag and you opened it and it almost fell apart in your hands and you saw THIS sentence out of the corner of your eye [certainly glittering is handsome and convincing ] wouldn't you think either: I have good friends, or This is the life, or Who wants another round?
JESSICA'S JUNE 3RD
Jessica's first day of the summer book.
Alan says, when it was this hot back in 1953 all anyone could do was lay in bed and cry, think about ice.
In this heat I want to be draped in wet white cottons, be on that bright green farm in Virginia where disabled weavers weave silk colored blankets.
They’re on the spectrum, Olivia says.
On the weekends the weavers play banjos, pick strawberries from strawberry patches, I’m draped in wet white cottons, dancing to their music, eating their fruit, living with them on the spectrum. We all get draped in wet white cottons, the heat stays outside us, we feed each other strawberries, eat some cream pie, take turns on the banjo. The guy named Merle bangs the heels of his hands on the empty pie pans, we all want to play the drums and he says, you can play when I’m finished. No one wants to wait for him to finish. We lay on the grass in wet white cottons and wait for heat to eat us alive. We'll have to become the heat, someone says, cant beat it join it, so we strip off our wet white cottons and relax into heat. We become muggy, we melt, our lines get fuzzy, heads are humid, we disappear one by one until only Merle's left banging pie pans and by evening Merle's melted heat too.
I Stay Warm
Music from Wanda & Wonder, video from Carmen Winant, whose arrival is very much anticipated on the East Coast.
THE SUMMER BOOK
My friend Jessica Chrastil and I want to make a Summer Book. Here is my first day of summer.
JUNE 3
Last night a friend told me I needed to jump in in the ocean.
You need to jump in the fucking ocean, my friend said, the beer rising up into her face.
I need to jump in the fucking ocean, it’s true, but how could she tell?
It’s about to be summer and we’re about to go bananas.
I love the phrase go bananas almost as much as I love to go bananas.
I love to go yellow, curved, sliding, sticking, peeling, bruised, bitten, soft, some green...
Which is to say I love to go summer.
Summer is my best quality.
Before I go I need to say that I’m getting prepared.
I am trying to love things a little bit less, in preparation for summer.
I am trying to look up at the sky more.
I am trying to sweat as much as possible, so that when it gets really hot,
so hot that we can’t wear any clothes, I will be prepared,
for all the nakedness, all the empty glasses, and all the smells.
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