Wednesday, December 26, 2007

m.lady does not recommend flying in an airplane while suffering from yet another ear infection

I have had a few different kinds of medicine in my system for the past few days. Two were actually prescribed, the rest, eh, the rest I found in my medicine cabinet and because this is my fourth ear infection in as many months, I decided that I deserve not to feel my face for a while.















I am getting to that point (perfectly timed for immediate post-graduation) when I feel like all of my stories are crap. I used to read them over and say to myself, "high five, m.lady!" Now I look at them and think they feel like a fourteen year old with a fondness for imaginary nostalgia wrote them. This hinders my desire to submit them to any journals. Thus hindering my future fame and fortune.


I have no plans for New Year's Eve. I am worried that I will be smash-ass drunk in my apartment with Bob and a bucket of ice cream.... again.
















I hate New Years.


Today, while I was at my special ear doctor, he bit the end of his pen and said "hmmmm...." Hindering my faith in his ability to heal me.















Today is actually the first day in several days that I haven't pumped my body full of prescription medications (the last pill was taken at 3am when I woke up going "OWWW"). I stopped the drugs because I think I would feel better if I drank a lot of beer tonight. Ear drops, though, now ear drops are something I have become quite the consumer of.


I have two notebooks to help me keep track of my fiction submissions. One is for individual stories sent to online journals. The second is for packets of stories to be sent to print journals. I give each story 10 shots at publication, then I give up (I haven't reached that point yet, although one story is close). These notebooks depress me.


I am thinking about starting a new online journal called "Why don't you LIKE ME?!" and only posting stories/poems/whatever that have been rejected at least 10 times.






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Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Me and My Theodore Huxtable - a work in progress

We like each other. We like each other very much. We are best friends. We say "besties." It sounds a little dirty, we think, when we call each other "besties." We like each other from the other side of the room. We make faces. We cringe and we totally. understand.

We are best friends and we go on long walks together and we talk about POETRY like it's really really really important. Like it's the most important thing in the world and that, we think, makes us important. Makes us very important and smart. We are so. smart.





















We like each other. So very much. We should get married, we say. We should by a house by a lake and go for long walks along the lake and we should collect rocks, the kind that are smooth and oval and we should throw those rocks at the lake and count the number of times they skip because that is so very nostalgic and we think nostalgia is great.

We are best friends. We are hip to hip. We are shoulder to shoulder. We don't even need to talk. We look at each other across the room and we raise our eyebrows and we totally. know. We should wear matching sweaters.
















We should live side-by-side in a duplex with a shared lawn and driveway.

We should go on a road trip. We should drive from Key West to Vancouver and along the way, we'll take every exit that promises to show us one of those really cool and totally awesome roadside attractions. We'll take pictures of us standing next to a giant metal sculpture of a grasshopper in the middle of a cornfield and so we can both be in the picture, we'll put the camera on the hood of the car and we'll set the timer and the picture will be of us with big shit-eating grins and we'll look at the picture later and we'll laugh because we were being ironic.





















But actually, well actually, it was pretty fun and we had a good time because we were together the whole time and we like each other. And we're totally not being ironic or sarcastic when we say that we like each other very much. And when we're together it's like time is nothing. Time is like whatever and we don't even notice when it gets late because we're all lost in talking to each other about smart things.

We buy a book about birds so we can go to the park with binoculars and go birdwatching and we can call out the names of various species of finch and we will feel very smart because we can determine one finch from the next, like they're our brothers or something.

We make t-shirts and on the t-shirts we screen print the word "I'm with my bestie" and there will be an arrow so when we're standing next to each other people will know that we like each other. We like each other very much. We are best friends. Best friends forever. Just like it says on our necklaces. Be. st. Fri. ends. For. ever.



























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Saturday, December 15, 2007

cc says I should elaborate

cc told me that I don't tell enough, or that I don't tell details

no, what she told me was that my last post confused her

no, not confused, but when I told her what the barbed wire picture was about she was all "oh, you should elaborate" (that's probably not verbatim there, but you get my drift)

so let's revisit:

I work in a gallery in the heart of downtown Chicago. Spitting distance from Millennium Park. My "trial period" at my job is over and now I'm going to be officially staffed with a bigger organization, so I had to go to their main office to get all of my forms handed in to prove that I am me and that I don't have TB.

But their main office is not downtown.

Their main office is west of downtown by about 2 miles. So I took the green line to a western way stop and then walked half a mile to the office. Getting off the train the horizon is factory facades and tall fences. Brick buildings not much used anymore and trees all bare for winter. On my walk I passed two lots filled with scrap metal (I think? because they were) surrounded by fences with razor wire. I also passed a pork processing plant and a sausage factory.












It's a strange neighborhood. Obviously a piece of Chicago with a definite identity, but that identity is slowly being shaved away. Not only is the main office for my employment a strange addition (a happy, new, bright building tucked behind mid-construction parking ramps and sausage factories) but there are a couple of interior design material warehouses with fancy signs and pretty windows and an audio mixing studio as well as a couple of other specific-need type places. Young businesses seem to be finding cheap rent and gussying up the building facades. It's not a neighborhood that will become a stroll down the street and stop into a shop type of place, but I think it's well on it's way to becoming a destination for those looking to find luxury goods but want to feel like they're getting a "find."


























The best part of the walk was when I passed by a mid-construction parking ramp and the melting ice and snow from the top level was spilling over the edge and bumping into the other levels on it's way to the ground. I could hear the waterfall sound from the end of the block and as I got closer to the mid-construction parking ramp, I found my skin tingling, that a sound that normally reminds me of forest and nature and sitting on a large rock to watch water fall, was coming from this place. This industrial lost and found place on the west side of Chicago.





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Thursday, December 13, 2007

"to ripe the fruit to rot the fruit"

I love this poem

I love it I love it I love it

Every time I read it I think, wow, there are so many ways to tell.


So I went here today:






































I had to go turn in my forms to be able to get benefits and paychecks from my new job. The office is around the corner from a sausage factory.

I kid you not.


Even though my chest still feels like it's filled with small, smooth rocks and candle smoke, I am starting to feel better. Light at the end of the tunnel.

ahhhh!!! Light!!





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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

i want

proof that 2007 is ending with a foot on my neck

so I've been having a bad week. obviously.

but I try to wake up with a positive attitude

only to get piddled on throughout the day

but today went pretty well

went to the doctor today, cute doctor, that's nice

work didn't suck

then I got home and there was a letter from my landlord

my last check bounced

Impossible!

why impossible?

because I keep a "buffer" in my account

and when I say buffer I mean enough to keep me afloat for about 3 months if I were to lose my job, I would still be able to pay rent, utilities, etc and a little extra just in case

so with a three MONTH buffer, how did the check bounce?

I checked my account, the money's there and there was money when the check was supposed to clear

the only explanation I can think of is that I forgot to sign it or something awesome like that.

it just seems this is the week, no month, to poo all over m.lady

I anticipate that tomorrow I will get mugged

and Friday I will find out that I have TB

and Saturday, well let's not look forward to Saturday.




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Tuesday, December 11, 2007

whatever, I do what I want





















hey, m.lady, what's a poem to you?

to me, a poem is entering into a conversation, bumping into someone at a coffee shop, chatting for a minute or two and then moving on. Thinking about that conversation while walking to the bus, waiting for the bus, sitting on the bus and looking out the window and thinking to yourself, "Maybe he meant this when he said that."

Or maybe the poem is a letter, one written using some kind of pattern or laid out rhythmic structure.

Or, maybe, the poem is a story. One told using some kind of pattern or laid out rhythmic structure.

At any rate, I hope the poet was kind enough to write "poem" at the top of the page.


Hey, m.lady, what's a prose poem to you?

See the above definition of "poem" only the poet used a prose structure, rather than the oft used line-breaky structure commonly associated with "poem."

At any rate, I hope the poet was kind enough to write "poem" or "prose poem" at the top of the page.


Hey, m.lady, what's a story to you?

To me, a story is something that takes the reader somewhere new.

At any rate, I hope the author was kind enough to write "story" at the top of the page.


With all of these, I think it is up to the reader to say, "hey, writer, I trust you here, but you'd better not let me down at the end." Emphasis on "trust."


If you like borders and boundaries and rules, well, don't read my shit. Or do, but don't get mad at me about it.

And if you're willing to break some rules, crush some fences, and give a little wiggle room, well, hop on board. I'm changing the fucking world here. And know that I'm not alone, we're an army, an undiscovered galaxy.





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How's it goin' ?

Saturday, December 08, 2007

Beyond the boundaries of Fantasia




what can I say?

not looking for pity or a pat on the head

the thing is

some days I just don't feel like being abstract. This is how I feel: Sad and lonely, fairly blue:




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Thursday, December 06, 2007

a letter the the Minnesota Twins organization (not the players, I love the players)

TO: Mucky-Mucks of the Minnesota Twins,


FROM: m.lady


RE: Torii Hunter and Johan Santana


MEMO: I hate you!!!



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Wednesday, December 05, 2007

so let's say I'm a unicorn and you're Noah, would you leave me behind too?

Apparently, the reason there are no unicorns around today is because they were off frolicking when the rain began to fall that caused the flood for which Noah built his ark. Anyway, they were so busy playing and being joyful, mystical creatures that they "missed the boat."

Why am I telling a story about unicorns?

Because I think it's supposed to be a story with moral along the lines of: don't goof around or you'll die.

But shouldn't the moral be: live happy 'cause you'll die anyway.

yes'm(.lady)


I've spent much of the week in the gallery working on installation. One of the pieces I've helped with was a group project, the title is: "??;?:'?..." I hope they can read that well enough to understand that it's the title of the work and put it on the little title card on the wall.

It's weird, because I feel like I've spent so much time there and then I'm like, "Didn't do much, just drew some pictures and lines."

This is what one of the projects that I worked on looks like:


















The show looks like it's going to be pretty awesome. There will be a Peace Salon (barbershop) a lot of cool video stuff, a puppet vaudeville show, posters, audio, a quiet repose for reading, and more and more! Awesomeness WILL abound! If you're not busy for the next month, you should stop by the g2 Gallery in Chicago. (details: g2 Gallery, 847 W Jackson, Chicago. Opening Reception December 7 from 5-8, reading December 8 at 7:30pm, show runs through January 12, 2008)


I can see why people starve and live in poverty to be artists, there's a major rush to putting the work together. For a writer, it's not quite the same. There's no final "I'm going to work my ass off and then rejoice once it's all hung up" For a writer, it's pretty much a constant, "Why doesn't anyone LIKE ME?!"


I work too much (40-45 hours a week), but what can I do? I like my cable tv, deli sandwiches, and pretty dresses. Someone asked me today how I can manage to be in grad school, work full time, and be at the gallery working on crap. I told her my secret was that I drink a lot and am very very organized.


Back to the unicorns. I don't just love unicorns because they're cute and isn't it funny to love unicorns? I love them because that unicorn/ark story tells me to have fun because you never know when God will smite you. (And yes, I am talking about writing. This was just an excuse to talk about unicorns and it is my way of saying "I am going to write whatever I want to write and one day, I just might drown because I was so busy frolicking a field, but that's okay.")






PS: I got a really strange comment in a critique this week. I was told that my writing was too pretty to be a narrative story...


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