Bagel therapy

Sometimes on a rainy day when you've been kept awake into the middle of the night by the neighbors, when melancholy won't leave you alone, and even Fran Lebowitz can't make you laugh, you've got to head on over to Ess-a-Bagel and nosh your blues away.

Oh, look who's getting cultured.

Films of the Week:

Monday, Exit Through the Gift Shop with Maggie and Joe (consensus: 3 out of 5 stars)

Wednesday, Domaine at Walter Reade with Veronica (consensus: we loved it)

I much prefer Béatrice Dalle in Domaine than in Betty Blue. Major, major crush.


Book of the Week:

After some post-Alice Munro depression, I became absorbed in Eileen Myles' Inferno (a poet's novel)

Music of the Week:

Milkymee soundtrack from Domaine

All the pieces

Last night, my fortune read, "You can never get all the parts of your life to match up at one time."
-From The Male Cross-Dresser Support Group by Tama Janowitz

(Close your eyes, pick a book off the shelf, open it to a random page, and read your fortune.)

Reading over your shoulder

Recently I was riding the train home from a long day. Next to me, this young hipster scribbled ferociously in his little notebook. I tried to nonchalantly read what he was writing; his handwriting was too messy. How can I explain how obvious it was that he was hoping someone would take notice? I've never seen someone perform writing as much as this guy.

So anyway, the train is slowly moving along until we are about to arrive at Bedford. Of course he's going to get off in Williamsburg. Where else? I look down one more time, hoping I can just get a sense of what all the fuss is about. And suddenly I watch him write, "If you're reading this right now--" but before he finishes his sentence, I look away. Then he snaps his notebook shut, gets off the train, and stands on the platform, watching me as the train pulls out of the station.

I couldn't read his expression and I was too afraid to spend much time trying. Guilt, confusion, and anger hit me all at once. Was he expecting privacy on the train? Should I have minded my own business? Did it make a difference since I couldn't read his handwriting?

Ultimately, I don't think I did anything wrong. Eavesdropping and picture-taking are standard protocol on the train.

I'd like to put this mystery to rest. I wish I had been brave enough to finish reading his sentence.

Excuse me, do you have the--

Continuing with February's theme of Wait and See, I visited Paula Cooper Gallery to watch two hours of Joe's MFA mentor, Christian Marclay's The Clock. The piece is a curated 24-hour film, marking actual time with clips from films that reference time. In other words, at 2:13 today, Marclay has edited together a cohesive sequence of representations of clocks, watches, and people talking about 2:13. There's lots of room to get comfortable on the couches and lose track of time while knowing exactly what time it is. The show is at once impressive and gimmicky. Most importantly, it's a great way to Wait and See.



Another option for Wait and See month is an evening at Radiance Tea House and a trip to the candy store, Myzel's with a good friend.

Extra credit to one of my favorite authors, Eileen Myles for an honest and hilarious essay on book tours in the back of the current issue of Bookforum.

Change of plans

The Spalding Gray movie was perfect; I can't blemish it with additional screenings.

A tuna-melt and coffee next to the ceaseless dancing and singing Santa at a diner in the West Village. Then bundle up for the train home. Maybe hot cocoa, Cynthia Ozick, and pajamas for a cozy afternoon.

Location:Jane St,New York,United States

Momentum-less

This is documentation of my first taste of frog legs, which I enjoyed quite a bit. Veronica and I ate a Thai feast and shared our frog legs with the women sitting next to us. (Only one of them was adventurous enough to try them.) Maybe by ingesting frog legs, I will become bouncy and energetic. Transference, perhaps.

A woman contacted me about being on a television segment based on my article in the Times. I'm a very boring television personality, but I never turn down an opportunity to be in the spotlight.

I'm too busy this week, busier than my body wants to be. Almost every hour seems to be accounted for and all I want to do is drink milk tea and sit in the sun with a good book.


(I stole one of Veronica's photographs of a piece of art-- one of my favorites-- that we saw on our gallery tour.)

Indeed I do.

Drink coffee at Grey Dog
Listen to Grace Jones' This is Life on repeat
Eat dinner at Pukk Vegetarian Thai
Have tea and cookies at Podunk
Catch up on graphic novel reading at Strand
Appreciate how fortunate I am to have this life

We need good things.

Out on the town with a mentor from graduate school this afternoon. It helps to have someone to talk to who has been in the literary scene and can answer my questions. Her forecast for literary fiction is bleak, but her company tipped the balance to make my day a positive one.

A perfect day to walk down from the Upper West Side to visit Joe at work. We made evening plans to continue creating our graphic novel.

Inspired by the It Gets Better project, I've decided to begin training to volunteer at a suicide hotline in New York. Winter is coming and I can imagine New York is going to need all hands on deck.

The best, hardest work

(Almost) everyday I encounter inspiring people. The more open I am to seeing it, the more my own questions are answered. At the ACT UP reading, many of the readers spoke about the inevitability of not fitting in as people with AIDS, queer people, artists, and activists. Now that I have a newly structured writing process, I have been feeling that old familiar awkwardness/loneliness creeping into my days. I'm not like other people, but I also crave external approval, which makes things complicated. Penny Arcade said that Quentin Crisp once told her that she is the kind of person who will have to fight for acceptance. I relate to that. This isn't a sob-story, just the opposite. What I'm learning is that I have to seek out similar outsiders. Tonight Joseph and I went to The Strand to hear Vanessa Davis speak with Marjorie Ingall (who was a writer and editor of beloved Sassy!) about her new book. Again, with the inspiration. Davis spoke about how ideally, her stories can put conversations into the world and help her communicate/articulate her experiences. And then there is the support from mentors. Hester wrote to me about the post-publication experience: "Every time is like starting all over again, and we're gripped by this fear that we'll never be able to write anything as good again. I don't think you can wait for the writing bug to bite you. If you want to write, you have to force yourself back into that chair the very next morning, and the one after that. To me, it's mostly about discipline, because it's not fun, it's not always fueled by inspiration. It's just a lot of hard, hard work. But isn't it the best work?"

(I've fallen in love with this picture I found on the Internet.)

Validation for a contrarian

Tonight:

"Writers with HIV/AIDS" Reading Series
Curated by Sarah Schulman of the ACT UP Oral History Project - White Columns.

David Halperin reads Michel Foucault
Jaime Manrique reads Reinaldo Arenas
Jim Eigo reads John Preston
John Weir reads David Feinberg
Marie Howe reads Tory Dent
Terry Rowden reads Steven Corbin
Penny Arcade reads Jack Smith



Another amazing night in New York. If I wanted a different life, I'd be living it.

Invisible Fiction

I saw you there, my favorite book, on a table in a puddle of rain, pages curled and yellowed. What did the ink-soaked sign taped below you used to say? "Free"? "Take me home"? "No longer needed"? I find you all the time, discarded or thrown into a box of tired, old books, sitting by the curb.

By hook or by book

Last year, one of my (favorite) students asked me if I relied on my peripheral vision to read while I walk, something I do daily. Most of the time, I end up walking into strangers or scaffolding, or tripping over cracks in the sidewalk. Rarely do I remember to use my peripheral vision.

(My Bubbie always says that creative people are clumsy because they don't have time to worry about boring things like walking; they're too busy being creative. I like this explanation.)

Ever since I've known Joe, he's been my guide, leading me through the streets while I'm absorbed in a book. I never trip when my arm is hooked through his. Tonight, we stopped by The Strand before going to see the play, A Bright New Boise, which was quite good. While browsing for books, I found a copy of one of my favorites, Will Grayson, Will Grayson, which I decided I need to have because Joe and I keep buying it for other people and not for ourselves. I also bought Vanessa Davis' new book, Make Me A Woman, even though the copy I ordered from Amazon should arrive any day now; I just couldn't wait. This means I'll have an extra copy to give to someone I love.

Situate me

My mom received an email from her good friend about my article. In her message, she asked about me: "She must be so nervous about the publication... Has she gone into hiding yet?" The answer is yes. My instinct is to disappear. This is the period of time where people start to notice that they haven't heard from me in a while. It's safe in my secret hiding place with my secret hiding companions. Ebb and flow. I don't know how writers like Daphne Merkin, can publish her private thoughts and life story on a regular basis. This morning I read an article about a teacher who is being reassigned after publishing essays about her past. People kept using the words "honest" and "brave" when referring to my article. Have I said something where others have chosen silence? Am I cut out for it? What does it mean to be cut out? Now that I've been published in The Times, insert question here.

Hail, a tornado, and a new friend

Feeling proud of the above picture, which I shot during the storm.

Tonight, right after the hail and tornado blew through New York, I met up with a woman who connected with me when she read my essay on Sunday. She sent me a wonderful letter, affirming my experience and sharing her very similar life story. In fact, she was college roommates with my ex and knows another friend of mine from New York. We had dinner and drinks at Cabrito. The best part of my publication is the connections I've made. I'm surprised by the continued positive feedback and now I'm very excited for this new friendship.


Second best storm photo



And third place

Promo for a rising star

I look up to my friend, Vanessa Davis. She and I went to arts high school together and our moms are close friends. Even in high school, she was super cool, fashionable in her vintage clothes and a leader among friends.

Her first graphic novel, Spaniel Rage came out in 2005 and was met with critical acclaim. Now she has published her second graphic novel, Make Me a Woman and her career is blowing up. Her writing and drawings are smart, honest, and often laced with vulnerability and humor, simultaneously protecting and exposing herself to the reader.

Vanessa was really supportive, leading up to the publication of my essay and she's continued to be there for me throughout the process. I love developing friendships with brilliant people.

Please consider buying her books to show support for a talented and genuine artist.

has been lifted off my shoulders. Maybe the next time I'm up for publication, I'll invest in a pair of shoulder pads.


Good news:
Positive feedback, connections, and community through my essay.

No bad news.

Watching people read

Joseph and I spent the first half of today running all over lower Manhattan with our cameras, in search of the many different incarnations of The New York Times.

Unsurprisingly, Joe took much better pictures, but he was using a massive camera and lens, which made it difficult for him to be covert.



























This is an advertisement for a condominium, a photograph of a banner that Joseph shot.















At the end of our journey, we treated ourselves to pumpernickel bagels at our favorite institution, Ess-a-Bagel.



Complete exhaustion.


Back to hibernation for this homebody.