notes from the attic

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QvaBA1LmGp8

can someone please tell me how to upload a video to lj? i still haven't figured it out.

or maybe i'll just take a shower with my cat.

second night hike in row leading up to the full moon. do you ever go for a walk and find yourself lost, not so much in thought but its graceful absence? so lost that there's nothing left to want from the world?

so, this was going to be a post about how much i hate cell phones, and how i think the world would be such a better place without them because in SO MANY ways they are actually killing our capacity to feel anything but an ever increasing sense of isolation from humanity and community and blah, blah, BLAH. i know it's been said before, but i felt the need to say it again, that is, until something entirely unexpected happened...

i got a letter. it was simple and to-the-point. it had the immediacy and unrehearsed kindness of a phone call or a note you'd leave on the kitchen table, but someone bothered to mail it. if i could alchemize this feeling of unequivocal happiness into a mortar and grind it into a fine, transmissible dust with a pestle, i would pepper it to the winds. but not before saving a little for snorting. this is just to say...i resolve to write more letters.

So, I'm going to preface this by saying I have no idea what this event is going to be like. The advertisements all sound very bougie, self-inflated, and pretty cringey, but I can assure you that my involvement in it will be amusing, incongruous, and somewhat farcical to say the least. That alone might be worth checking out!

The Woodstock Town Hall Theater is screening the Oscars live, this Sunday.

Show starts at 7:30pm. Admission is FREE.

I will be modeling on stage with Megan Rigali, who you might recognize from some of the Rev fashion shows (she's the extremely statuesque dancer with that mischievous laugh, radiant smile, and Lisa Loeb-esque glasses, yes, ok, I may have little crush, in fact, i'm going to go ahead and indulge my inner stalker and post a pic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/54867669@N00/395702364/in/set-72157594544998871/ ). We will be showcasing vintage fashion from the Victorian era to the 60s. What this has to do with the Oscars is anyone's guess! But, I promise you, you will get a good laugh out of it all.

The woman running the show (the owner of Who is Sylvia?, a great vintage clothing shop in Woodstock, if you like that sort of thing) seems to have an inordinate affinity for the color pink. Therefore, almost every dress I'm wearing is comically bubble gum, spice, and everything nice in nature. Megan, of course, is wearing all the stunning, long, sexy dresses, while I am porky in pink, but who cares? You won't be able to take your eyes off her long enough to feel too embarrassed for me.

The Pentangle website doesn't have much more info than I've provided, but if you want to check it out:

http://www.pentanglearts.org/

Come on! Let's CRASH this HollyWoodstock affair JUNK STYLE!

Hope to see you there.

My stomach has betrayed me! It no longer wants me to enjoy food. I'm trying to eat my lunch right now, and it's like trying to fit one more pair of socks in an already overstuffed suitcase; I can't open it up all at once or the thing might explode, but trying to inch it through a small opening in the zipper is proving to be a time-consuming and tedious task. OK, maybe that wasn't the best simile, but you get the idea.

Basically, I'm half way through one of those really small soups from the hot bar at the coop, and I'm so fucking full, and, i mean, it's not just the feeling of fullness; I'm actually bloated. I doubt I'll be able to finish this, which is ridiculous because, assuming I can finish it, that'll make a grand total of FOUR FOOD ITEMS I've eaten in the past FOUR DAYS. The other three being a bagel, a handful of crackers, and some sprigs of broccoli (raw). WHY IS MY BODY REJECTING FOOD?

Even more upsetting, I can tell the food tastes good, yet it still isn't appetizing to me. And I'm starting to get winded from walking up AND down stairs. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I swear to god, this better be temporary or I'm just going to lie down and die. I SWEAR, I WILL! I'LL DO IT!

Does anyone want any of this extra food I bought from the coop?

You know, I finally did it. I made myself physically ill with worry. fever, aches & pains, coughing, puking, and a whole hot mess of ailments too disgusting to bear mention.

Nurse, please?

Actually, I feel a little better today. I went to bed with Nyquil and Airborne at 5:30pm last night. Barely able to support the weight of my barely breathing corpus this morning, but seems more manageable now. Manageable enough to go to Elixir's and pretend I'm OK to have a drink, even though I haven't eaten in two days. (I'm not counting the Wendy's meal from yesterday I threw up)

http://www.superdeluxe.com/sd/contentDetail.do?id=D81F2344BF5AC7BBFD17973059544780E6519CF6019807CA

After a long hiatus, I finally played poker with the woodstock crowd again this past Sat. It was cool to see some of the old gang again; it was pretty small group--seven in all; placements out to two, $50 and $90. I'd forgotten how smokey it got at Schulz's place; I can still smell it on my jeans. All in all I think I did OK considering I hadn't played in a while; I personally took out three of the seven players, which was more work than anyone else did, and I was low stacked for pretty much the whole game. I won the first hand, but it kind of went down hill from there. I placed third, on the bubble, of course, so no money. No matter how many times that happens, it doesn't get any less frustrating. It didn't make it any easier that I didn't out last my ex. I almost always place higher than him.

My personal favorite hand of the game was one between Calvin and I. I was big blind, and Calvin was small; everyone else had folded. Calvin called, and I checked. If Calvin had raised even just the minimum pre-flop, I would have folded because I had a five-deuce off-suit. But, lucky me, I got to see a flop. I say lucky me because the flop came K, 5, 5. I figure I'll do a little reconnaissance, so I slow play and check. Sure enough Calvin bites, big. So, this is perfect; I'm pretty sure he has a King. I fire back, but I don't re-raise. The turn comes FIVE, and I'm practically SHITTING MYSELF. I have FOUR FIVES; are you SHITTING ME, I HAVE FOUR FIVES?? The set up could not be more in my favor. I CHECK, and let Calvin feel like he's running the show. Sho nuff, he bets BIG because, if my initial assessment is correct, he now has a full house, so he's super psyched, but not as psyched as I AM! So, again, I match him with a little bit of (FAKE) hesitation. The river comes (you won't believe this) KING! So now there's a full house ON THE BOARD. Fives over Kings. What are the odds? BUT, remember, Calvin has a King (most likely) from the way he's been betting, so he has KINGS over fives, which beats the full house on the board, so after some strategic acting on my part ("well, we're just going to split, so I CHECK"), I set Calvin up for yet another pivotal power play. But this time, after he fires, I move in for the kill...

1. I disarm him; I make some comment to the effect that he doesn't know what he's doing because we're just going to end up chopping the pot anyway; I hit his intelligence and ego in one blow, put him on the defensive, and unprepared for what comes next.
2. I immobilize him; I move all-in, forcing my opponent to make a decision that I already know he's going to make; now, under any other circumstance, this move would have probably seemed suspect, but, Calvin's not paying attention to that; he's paying attention to that King in his hand and imagining the look on my face when he WHIPS IT OUT after I emasculated him in front of his buddies. (it's so fun and divisive being the only woman at the poker table)
3. At this point, I know I have THE NUTS, so when Calvin calls, just like I expected, there's nothing left to do except deliver the death blow. I wait 'til he flips first (I was right--a King) to give him one final glimmer of hope, then...I flip my five. That moment--that feeling of anticipation/exhilaration is why I love this game. And the crushing of a guy's hopes and nuts ain't so bad either.

I have a cheap bottle of wine, a collection of R&B that is (so far) holding up to repeated play, and a warm cat on my lap. I tried to treat myself to a WASP's diner breakfast this morning, but, alas, they were closed. I even got there before 11am this time. This is objectionable, but not atypical. At least the heat is on, my bedroom has stopped flooding, and the puke is no longer flowing like the ganges.

This is not the way I would have picked to celebrate my 27th year, but I can think of much worse ways to spend my birthday. Yes. I have decided. My luck is on an upswing. 

More later...the wine has taken my introspective side hostage, and replaced it with a an overwhelming compulsion to croon. Sam Cooke wishes he could drunk-sing as good as this. I have found my calling. Forget this Fool's Paradise...r&b stardom, here I come.
 

I'm reading Frank O'Hara poems again. The subject of this post is a line from "Lines for the Fortune Cookies." He has quite a few poems with reoccuring themes; eggs, for instance. He likes eggs. I like eggs too.  I wish I had someone to eat eggs with. Frank died after falling asleep on beach and being run over by a dune buggy.

For Grace, After a Party
You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't
interest
         me, it was love for you that set me
afire,

      and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
                                   writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn't there
              an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed?  And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn't
                   you like the eggs a little

different today?
                 And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

Did anyone else hear this story on npr today? Chris de Burgh, otherwise known for being the guy that sings 'Lady in Red' and not much else here in the states, is apparently a superstar in Iran? They made the analogy that basically he is to Iran what Michael Jackson was to us in the 80s. He is scheduled to perform this huge concert in Iran with some famous Iranian pop band called ARIAN(?) sometime next year. A book of his lyrics has been one of the only english to farsi translations allowed in the country. And the weirdest part? It's not his romantic ballads for which he is known; it is his revolution songs! I found this video on youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZCNHjH8zH4

OK, does anyone else find it utterly baffling and bizarre that this mediocre Irish American soft rock star is inspiring feelings of  nationality and unity in the hearts of the Iranians everywhere? I just don't get it. I mean, they LOVE this guy. Check out how many people from Iran have posted comments on his website:

http://www.cdeb.com/maindex.html

This is one of my favorites:

I love u ... right now I'm listenin' 2 your song (I'm not cryin'over u) ... wow ... you r just great ...

thnx 4 bein' there ... I found God n' its beauty in your songs ... I found the love 4 others ... thnx Chris, thnx so much ...

u r always on my mind ... even in my purse, in my cellphone, on the wall of my room ... see, u r everywhere ...

I love u :* 
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

BOY, OH, BOY! When Chris gets to Iran, he's going to have to beat the burkas off with a stick! And he'll probably be hailed for that too.

 Life's too short to be cold and miserable inside, so I'm putting everything warm I own on my person, pouring the rest of this bottle of wine into a to-go mug, and venturing out into the great white beyond.

I'm gonna build me snowman with snowballs.

Wish me luck!

 OK, I'm back, but your not off the hook yet, LJ. I was talking to some people at the party last night, and they were telling me that facebook, not livejournal, is where it's at. Now I'm not saying I've given up on you...yet, but consider yourself on probation. I have options, I know I have options, and I ain't messin; with no broke, broke internet forum.

party recap:

1. Mosdef nailed that shit. got lots of compliments. i should point out that this was a theme party, the theme being "office christmas party." If there's one thing you can count on me for, it's going all out for a theme party. biz caz--I rock that shit. it's not just a style; it's a way of life. i went with a chic 60s number--classy, conservative, but festive. Something along the lines of below, but without the jacket. I added a gaudy brooch, sheer black tights, and gold satin pumps. Can you say trying too hard? *Sigh*

2. I smiled the shit out that room. I smiled so fucking hard for so fucking long that I forgot to breathe at some point almost passed out. My face is still all cramped up from it. Fuck this smiling shit. It's not worth it. People are going to find out sooner or later that I'm a difficult, morose, and loathsome person at heart. I'd rather it be sooner.

3. I nailed awkward, out-of-place, and socially-stunted. Does that count for anything?

4. I did not know 90% of the people at this party; I would not have found this out had I not moved around some.

5. I introduced myself to several people. However, I found it hard to get past the feigning interest in what they were saying, let alone getting to the part where I actually had to say something interesting myself.
Note to self: admitting to people that you suck at parties, and mostly go from one barren wall space to the next with a bit of forced small talk in-between does not make you seem real or endearing in any way. It makes you seem pathetic--overtly so. So much so, in fact, that people struggle to hide their discomfort as they look for a way to gracefully remove themselves from your presence. Pathetic = unattractive? Who knew?

6. Goes without saying. 
Note to self: egg nog with too much rum, before or after anything, but esp. wine and hard cider = severe intestinal distress.

7. Yup, easy peasy...ok, FINE. I leaned against the wall, while the boy I wanted to make out with made out with some other chick. BUT, BUT, the other chick thought I was cute. And motioned for me to come over from the other side of the room to tell me as much. In fact, I thought she was flirting with me until she started making out with the guy next to me. Does that make this situation more or less pathetic? It doesn't matter, does it? It's pathetic either way.

Goals for this evening:

1. GET WARM.

That is all. 

It's 52 degrees in my apartment right now. I have on four layers, long johns under jeans, a scarf, polar fleece socks and slippers, and polar fleece blanket. My hands are numb from typing. I can't feel my toes. I am Jess's barely there extremities. I miss things like dexterity, mobility, and sweat. My existence has been reduced to a series of actions I have to perform as quickly as possible before I can get back rotating in front of the space heater in my bedroom. It has become my small ceramic sun. I worship it. It is my world. heat giver, bearer of warmth, I bow down before you!

Back to rotating...

 Thank you for the awkward but tender introduction to internet forums. When you asked me what my interests are, it felt like you really cared, not like you were just trying to get  in my pants. That being said, I'm not sure what I'm getting out our newfound relationship--I know it's early, and maybe I'm being selfish, but I thought you'd teach me things, introduce me to interesting people, you know, make me feel special? So far, respectfully, you kind of suck balls.

In any case, I'm going out now. To a PARTY. In real life. with real people. Goals for said party:

1. Look good.
2. Smile. (apparently I don't do this enough)
3. Be aloof, mysterious, and irresistable--this one will be esp. tricky; I have proven time and time again to be eerily resistable.
4. Mingle, circulate--do not stay in one place like you always do; you're at a party, not lost in the woods; people will be able to locate you even if you move around.
5. Engage people with interesting, insightful, and hilarous comments.
6. Get drunk, but not too drunk.
7. Make out with a cute boy, and don't give him your phone number.

Note: These are in order of most likely to happen first. Actually, move number 6 up to number 1.

Alright, wish me luck!

TTFN, LJ

P.S. I think I'm turning into Bridget Jones. If I start speaking in a fake british accent, somebody, please, slap me.

 

 i thought it'd feel different...like better. i mean, isn't it supposed feel good? everyone's doing it. like what's all the hype about?

it's over. great. now what?