Category Archives: Literature

my electrical well

Helllerrrrrrgh. I’m coming to you live from scenic San Francisco, where I am living in the Mission for the month, noting the fog, having atomic anxiety, and eating oleaginous burritos the size of my forearm for breakfast each morning. While on the phone with my mom a few days ago, I expressed concern that, as such, I might be putting my diet out to al pastor pasture. She said, “It’s all organic; it’s healthy! Don’t worry!” OKAY, WHATEVER YOU SAY, BEST MOM EVER.

I’ve also been reading a volume of Rene Ricard poems from 1979-1980 that arrived at my sublet before I did. Friends who send packages are the best. Here’s my favorite of the collection.


The rainbows on this dickpic come from prisms hung in the window—my room is very your-aunt-who-likes-to-reminisce-about-Lilith-Fair-and-also-uses-the-word-“funky”-as-a-commendation. To illustrate, please consider this tableau that I found on the mantle of the fireplace (YEAH, I have a fireplace here, WHAT OF IT? It’s not like it’s operational, but whatever. Also in my bedroom hideaway, which used to be the manager’s room in a youth hostel: a private dressing room, a weird but ultimately anodyne driftwood sculpture, a Volcano, a loft with a bed in it, and, of course, the following).


Why YES, that IS a Tori Amos thumb ring wrapped around a healing crystal sitting in its own stately li’l armchair, and yes, it’s perfectly indicative of the overall tone of my temporary homefront. I think  I’m going to attempt a séance in this bitch with some of my new San Francisco pals. Will let you know if I’m able to conjure Lilith herself, or whatever other roisterous spirits happen to be knocking around the loft, during my term here.

In other recent literary forays, I just finished Cruddy by Lynda Barry and found it to be the most engrossing book I’ve read in a dog’s age, wolfed Fraud and Don’t Get Too Comfortable by David Rakoff over the past two days and appreciated the collodial way in which I find his attitudes and style popping up in my own thoughts and writing, and familiarized myself with  the precise but hardy essays of Joseph Mitchell, whom I love. You should totally read his 1939 New Yorker essay on beefsteak dinners in New York City. These were enormous fancy banquet events that, instead of serving the delicate shellfish and dubious fruit-and-gelatin-centric desserts that were de rigueur at the time, plied guests with prodigious amounts of beer and animal in the form of beef slabs while simultaneously maintaining an air of class and exclusivity. PETITION TO BRING BACK THE BEEFSTEAK DINNER! You guys can totally come to the one I’m co-hosting with Lilith’s poltergeist (séance willing) in a week, if you want. Anyway, I leave you now with this picture of me being a weird fish near a sign that says “weird fish” (all of these come from my Instagram, where you can follow me if you like pictures of half-assed piñatas and varying portraits of my own stupid miens).

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rites of spring

Every spring, I make sure to read this Leonard Cohen poem, which is one of my favorites ever-ever. A poet I know also recommended Frederick Seidel’s “Ode to Spring” to me today, which is what reminded me that it is about time, once again, to share it.

It’s Probably Spring
So-and-so is sick of all the shit but doesn’t feel that bad today because it’s probably Spring. the laundry in the sunshine tells the obscene family story of power and love but it doesn’t matter because it’s probably Spring. Jack is fat and jane is twisted from the Plague. But you don’t have to choose today because it’s probably Spring. You’re nothing like the pilot, nothing like the matador, you’re nothing like the one I waited for,
but I won’t rub your nose into everything you haven’t done because it’s probably Spring. I can listen to the bugle now, I can stand beside the old windmill, I can think about my loyal dog buried in the snow.
Sally lost her fragrance and her broken heart she won’t show but she’s going to bite her lip and start again because it’s finally Spring. The little lambs are leaping through the Easter hoop so the insomniac can get to sleep but he’s caught without his knife and fork because it’s probably Spring. It’s probably Spring. You can give away your money for an hour. You can resume your childhood plan. You’re naked and the snake is hungry but the vicious thing won’t sting because it’s probably Spring.
All the poison clouds have settled in a thimble which you nearly make me drink but then you smash it in the fireplace because it’s probably Spring. But let’s be quiet so we can hear the naval band. They’re fine looking lads and they’re playing the National Hymn. Their sweat is sweet beneath the woollen uniforms, it’s hot and scratchy but they’ll be in white tomorrow because of it’s probably being Spring. It is the passion of our Lord. It is the ladder through her hair. It is a lovely field which you cannot find in the city. It is what you can never find again so tender and so wild, so do kneel down and honour what the Name makes manifest because it’s probably Spring. O stand in due respect for that which flings your wife into another’s arms, which heaves the poppy shrapnel through your heart, which invites you to forgive some shabby crime you’re likely to commit because it’s probably Spring.

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a wonderful christmas time

Hello, wild baby heart attackers. It is nearly CHRISTMAS, and as such, I am back home enjoying the many splendors of my family home, the best of which at the moment is a book called My Year of Meats by Ruth Ozeki. I meant to send it to my apartment but I hadn’t updated my address in a while, so it was waiting for me here like a patient little surprise gift to and from myself. Also, this is essential to my holiday happiness righ nah:

All Ritter Sport is heavenly, especially my favorite-candy-of-all-time Knusperflakes one, and this bar is no exception. I don’t know what “Trinitario cocoa” is exactly, but I’m pretty sure it comes from pixie mating sap coaxed gently from the sweet bark of thousand-year-old trees in a mythical forest on the moon. I’ve been stealing it out of one of those gourmet gift baskets that my mom always seems to have around somehow (albeit in various states of cellophane-deflating picked-overness). Seriously, where do these things come from? Is it because she’s a teacher? If so, I think I just switched my career path because I LOVE THESE GIFT BASKETS AND THE AMAZING THINGS LIKE THIS IN THEM.

Clearly, between both chocolate and searing fictional indictment of the meat industry, I’m having a very seasonally-appropriate and lovely time. THE BEST THING OF ALL, THOUGH, is that my little sister came in pretty tipsy a few minutes ago and growled “you’ll never be a human being” at the cat. In that same generosity of spirit, happy holidays, everyone!

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my boyfriend and my girlfriend got together and left me behind

Roland Barthes and Bethany O., breaking my heart.

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