Birthday

I felt the need, after not writing here in five million years, to update this briefly with some extremely important information.

It was my birthday a few days ago. Unlike last year, I did not get horrifically cross-faded, throw up, inside of a bar, into empty beer glasses, that later tipped over and spilled my puke on the floor, that my older sister’s jacket fell into, and had to be walked outside by my friends, slumped on a sidewalk in the rain, get into a taxi where i got sick again, but had the cringe-worthy courtesy to the cab driver to hold my puke in my mouth, so that i could roll down the window and spit it outside, get kicked out of that cab, only to slump again on a sidewalk in the rain inches from my own puke, all while my sister is telling me how much she hates wearing a jacket covered in my barf, then get into another cab, finally get home, get into my bed without changing, wake up to find my phone is lost, then to find out the next day that my phone was miraculously still at the bar.

none of that happened this year.

this is what progress looks like, folks.

27: the year i finally learn from my past mistakes. i knew it was bound to happen eventually.

2011: things happened

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,600 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 27 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Local Free Reading Event for Black Clock Literary Magazine @ Mandrake Bar

oh, hey y’all this looks cool:

BLACK CLOCK   14

readings by

Merrill Feitell
Sara Gerot
Seth Greenland
Tara Ison
Rick Moody

introduced by Steve Erickson

Sunday, December 11, 2011
7 p.m.

at

Mandrake

2692 South La Cienega Blvd.
Los Angeles,  California 90034
(between Venice and Washington boulevards)
310  / 837-3297

           21 and over

sponsored by the CalArts MFA Writing Program

The meat of it

I have to admit, I have little tolerance for the bullshit.

Though it’s not bullshit, really. It’s more of the necessary niceties.

You know, when you first meet people, whether it’s in a class of some sort or just meeting people for the first time, and your conversations and interactions consist of the surface stuff.

What city are you from? What school did you go to? Oh, by any random chance do you know ____? Haha, I didn’t think so–it was a wild shot.

How was your first week of school? Where are you living right now? What classes are you taking?

And on and on for the first weeks/hangouts with acquaintances/people who will hopefully become your friends.

But there comes a point where I just want to throw whatever I’m holding onto the floor in an act of I’ve-had-enough! and be all like:

Whoa, whoa, whoa, people. Is anyone else here sick of the empty calorie conversations? Does anyone else here want to get down to the nitty-gritty? Right down to the core, substantial, protein-filled nourishing parts of talking? 

And then, hopefully, people can talk about the shit that matters.

Like, what was your turning point for making such a big decision like going to grad school?

Or, does anyone else feel so shit-tastically intimidated by and terrified of grad school?

Or, do you believe in the institution of marriage?

Or, do you have your one-that-got-away? Who was it and where are they now and what happened?

When was your drunkest night that you can remember and what can you recall happening?

What was one of the best days of your life and what was the worst?

The things that really make a person who they are.

But I know that’s a bit much to ask of people so soon–to bare themselves all flesh and muscles and arteries and sinews for people they hardly know to see.

It’s probably too much soul-nakedness. I can dig that.

And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s when people act too familiar too soon. As if after having a couple of conversations, you’re automatically able to make jokes and be kinda touchy and basically jet right over Kinda Friends-ville straight to BFF Town.

That’s not at all what I’m aiming for. I am all about waiting to size up a person’s character before you decide whether or not y’all are on the same wavelength.

But, after awhile, how can you truly get to know a person’s vibe if you keep talking about the weather or schedules or what you did on the weekend?

Just think about it. Let yourself get comfortable with the idea.

And who knows–maybe next time, you’ll feel ready to step out of your self-conscious skin, and I promise I’ll do the same, and we’ll get down to the meat of the conversation.

Citylove

My heart aches

My heart yearns

My hear longs

for a city blanketed by fog

swimming in the clouds

on the other side of a shark-filled bay

with a cold ocean cuddling it on the west.

Hilly streets like a sine and cosine graph,

undulating in my dreams–

Aching thighs and belly as I walk vertical.

A cathedral shining in the night

A couple of bridges stretching into the ether

A park the length of a city

with bouts of sunshine quick to disappear,

enjoying meals that last for more than three hours.

The streets humming with language

The rumble of the Muni train

The squealing of bus tires–

One driver shouting “Move to the back!” and yet another bellows, “Step down!”

Cris-crossing nonsensical streets

with pedestrians and druggies and homeless skittering through.

The confused tourists

The savvy commuters

The few and far between San Francisco natives

The naively pompous young adults–

Everyone stretching and reaching and moving

going and coming and breathing

running and eating and living

growing and becoming and evolving

hating and loving and fucking–

All on a 7X7 piece of land

that started off as a bunch of hills and a landfill.

Oh, my heart–

Oh, my San Francisco–

Oh, my love.

Exposed

Inspired by this painting by Fernando Vicente:

Because when I’m vulnerable, I open myself up so wide, so bare, so raw, that a person can see right through my skin and bones and my muscles and guts, right to the heart-center of me.

I’m not hiding, can’t you see me? I’m not hiding.

I hold nothing back because to share means to connect and I need to connect, I need to fucking connect, so why don’t you want to connect with me?

I know it, though. I know why. I know that I’m too frank too sincere too nice too naked too shy too talkative too quiet too extreme too boring too emotional too needy too distant too present.

But I want to be honest, I crave being honest. I want to hear your truths and I want you to hear my truths. So let’s talk. Let’s talk until our jaws disconnect and our throats are sore and our tongues are dry and we fall asleep spent and bloody and exhausted but happy and whole.

And you see, I’ll hold back, at first, because I feel like I should, because I think it’ll make me stronger to keep myself away from the meat of the feeling, staying cold and distant and aloof and safe. But then once I open up I’m insatiable in my longing to give all of me and I’ll give and give until I’m running on empty and all that keeps me going is my desire for you. To hear your voice and to see you laugh and to feel you touch my thigh, my arm, my hair, my anything, really, even to just have you brush by me I’m covered in goosebumps.

But by then I’ll be empty and there’ll be nothing left for me or of me and the honest-to-god truth is that nobody wants an empty shell.

It’s all quite terrifying, really.

Keep it hid

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s this: shit happens.

When you least expect it, no matter how hard you try to control it, shit will and does happen.

But what do you do when something else even more unexpected occurs? Something you should be able to control, but sometimes, due to unforeseen circumstances, you can’t?

What do you do when flatulence happens?

Shock of all shocks: I’ve been kinda hanging out with a boy as of late. Just some casual hanging out, fun shit, super breezy–nothing serious or scary or pressure-inducing. Just some real chill shit.

Well the other night I stayed over at his place. This has happened a few other times before with nothing truly noteworthy coming to pass.

Until last night, when something did pass: my gas.

I had taken Benadryl due to an ongoing allergic reaction I’ve been having, and so I was pretty out of it and relaxed. Sadly, a little too relaxed.

In the middle of the night and in my half-conscious state, I felt/thought I hard myself exhaling…from my asshole.

And not in a subtle fashion.

I think the words “motha-fuckin’ blow out” come to mind.

In fact, my flatulence was so loud that I’m pretty sure I kinda woke myself up, but was still significantly out of it and uncertain whether or not I was witnessing reality or a horrible, mortifying Benadryl-induced dream.

The boy got out of bed, and I could’ve sworn I heard the words “barfing in my mouth” or “it got in my mouth” muttered disgustedly into the dark.

Still out of it, I slowly faded back to black as my mind frantically but incoherently tried to discern if the scene was reality.

I woke up in the morning to leave for work, with the possible events of the evening whirling around my brain.

Did it happen or didn’t it?

Before I left, he told me to have a good day at work.

Decoded, does this mean “have a good day at work and for the rest of your life because I don’t want to associate with a disgusting schlep who passes gas under the covers causing one’s sleeping partner to slowly but surely suffocate on sulfuric toxins”?

Or maybe, just maybe, it was all some sordid, strange dream, and he just meant for me to simply have a good day at work?

I’ve asked various sources for advice, and they’ve ranged from:

-Bel, don’t worry about it. It’s not like you’re CO2ing every day.

-If he’s going to be that bothered by it, and it’s the first time you’ve done it, he’s probably not someone you want to keep hanging out with anyway.

-I’m sorry, there’s no excuse…A boy wants to put things IN your holes, not hear nor smell things that come OUT of them.

I’m worried that the last statement of advice is the truest.

But at the same time I keep thinking, But sweet Christ, I was sleeping! It’s not like I made the conscious, determined decision to blow innocent passers-by out of the water with a fart of epic proportions. I couldn’t help it! I was too relaxed, goddammit. Just too fucking relaxed.

And to think that for a moment I was so content because for once I was able to sleep somewhat soundly in a bed that wasn’t my own.

No, Bel, things aren’t that easy for you, remember?

If a day passes in which I haven’t, in some way, at least partially humiliated myself and taken a chip out of my dignity, then that day is not yet done, my dear.

Touche, Life–you tricky bitch, you–touche.

So I’ve decided that the best response to this situation is no response at all. I’m going to let it ride, and hopefully the awkwardness and embarrassment I’m currently filled to the brim with will all slowly dissipate–much like the waves of odor being expelled from one’s body.

The next time–that is, if there is a next time–I just need to remember that perhaps tossing and turning, unable to comfortably sleep all night, is preferred over an unexpected and rousing late night dutch oven session.

The Black Keys have inadvertently given m the best advice: Gotta keep it hid.

Leavin’ Trunk