Alright. I can't believe that it took me two damn days to get around to finishing this. It's been rough, believe it. Anyhow, a sample, if you will:

My anxiety levels are running pretty high lately. I can't turn my head off long enough to sleep. And when I finally crash, I can't stay asleep. I grind my teeth. My shoulders are wire-tight. On Sunday, I got multiple text messages from Aaron M. about a show at Edinberg Castle. I got a few more from another 805 area code, and it took me most of the day to figure out that the second set were coming from a Chad from San Luis Obispo, who happened to be drumming in one of the bands playing that night. They were both buggin' me to go to the same show. And one person, I can flake on. Two people, including one from out of town? Much harder to do.
I figured I'd go to the show, try and shake this funk, have a drink. Just one, 'cause I only had like forty bucks to my damn name. There were folk in town, you see. And I justified it by telling myself it would be much easier to fall alseep if I had a bit o' drink in me.
So, I found myself chatting up old friends over shots of good tequilla and cheap beer. The bartender either forgot to or didn't charge me for the first shot/beer combo. Good sign, since I was so close to broke. After some inital chatter, I went upstairs and immersed myself in near-pitchperfect-black while I payed the cover and juggled my beer. The band was good, but the sound guy kept staring at me. He looked sorta like an old friend. When the set was finished and the lights came up it took us both a split second before I realize he was my old friend, Zephyr. I've lived in this city nearly seven years and I can't go fuckin' anywhere. It was good to see him, I got the update on his girlfriend (she's due in november, they're having a boy, he's appropriately scared) and all and kept drinking my way through the show, extremely happy that I had made the decision to go out. Went down for another beer and ran into a guy who used to work with my ex-boy -yet another instance of someone staring at me and it taking us both a few solid minutes to place it. We make nice while moving back to the band room, he says something about ex-boy's job-change, 'oh, so he did take X's position?' I ask. 'Oh yeah, you didn't know?' he questions innocently. 'Nah,' I say as we slip back inside the darkness ' We haven't talked in a while' Then the noise of the band makes talking impossible and I slip away, grateful to be covered by the dark and comforted by the tequilla.
After the show, I am drunk (which means I must keep drinking. I don't know why this is) and manage to run into yet another friend from high school - who I barely recognize since I haven't seen him in ten years. I barely remember him. Chad puts me into a cab, I get home and crash. Hard.
In the morning, I realize that my adventure has relieved me of $30, many hours of sleep and the ability to make it to work on time. I realize when I am in the shower that I am still drunk. Then I throw up, call in with a made up pet-related excuse and go back to bed for an hour. When I wake up, I manage to eat toast and have a morning toke to even out before hopping on the bus, where all the music on my iPod (Duckie. Yes, it has a name and yes, it's Duckie.) is mellowing me out and making me feel like the world is my music video (should you care to re-create the experience there's a track listing at the end of this post, like a soundtrack to my morning). I get a window seat on the bus and marvel at how appropriate or comforting song lyrics are and somewhere around fifth and market manage to finalize my next tattoo idea.
For a while, I've been planning on getting stars on the inside of my left wrist - one for every year that I've been at 16th & mission - one star will be just an outline, the next will be blue with no outline and the third will be a pinky red outlined in black. My original plan was to also get the U.S. Dept. of Labor job code for poet in there too, until I researched it and realized they don't have a number for poet anymore. Why would they? Who makes money being a poet these days? Still depressing though....
Anyhow, I thought of this: "It is later than you think" in a scroll-y type with the stars. It is graffiti from the bathroom of Amnesia - appropriate, signifcant, sf-related... as soon as I considered the idea I started to get very excited. I knew it was right just because of how I was feeling about it. I can't wait for October to roll around.
In the meantime, I'm going with B on Thursday to get her first tattoo - something that should be featured in our 'zine, should we ever get our asses together. Keep your fingers crossed but don't hold your breath.

Track Listing 08/27:

- Conquest, the White Stripes
- Where the girls are, the Gossip
- Raindrop, the Reindeer Section
- Rain, Muggs
- Love Is A Deserter, the Kills
- Asleep and Dreaming, the Magnetic Fields
- Reason Is Treason, Kasabian
- Crash on the Barrelhead, Old 97's
- Rock and Roll, Handsome Boy Modeling School

things that have made me smile lately (in no particular order):

- the drafting table and chair i scored off craigslist for $50

- talking about 'zines with bonnie

- the maestro saying 'babygirl don't sound so sad'

- brand new tan trenchcoat 'cause it makes me feel like a perv

- james. motherfuckin'. brown.

hey hey kids.
how 'bout a weekend update? i try to avoid the freakin' computer during the weekend since i spend so much damn time on the thing at work....
anyhow, 16th & mission was actually good last week. lots of people, good energy, no lags in between performers, and i didn't have to do anything. i'm still not very excited about the piece i wrote but since it's memorized, i'll do the damn thing this week when the chapbooks come out. wound up going home with the maestro, which was good as always despite the fact that i had to work in the am. had to go to work in the same clothes i'd been wearing at 16th & mission - which was somewhat uncomfortable since i was wearing a sweater and thick socks. had to ditch the socks and just deal with the sweater. didn't matter 'cause i was happy. maestro asked me to print a copy of his screenplay, and i got to spend most of my day at work on friday reading it.
and it's good.... it's just really fucking good. i'm always... honored when he lets me read stuff.
my brother and a friend of his came to the city for rock the bells. it was actually okay to see him, which was a nice change. had a bit of a conundrum about letting him smoke in the house, but gave in. can't be a hypocrite. i even took him to zeitgeist on saturday, where annoying germans hit on me and chza almost started a fight with them. i was too tired to do much but sulk into my beer - been fighting a funk for a few days. my brother showed up with one of my roommates friends, mad dog. mad dog was ridin' high on the sex, drugs and all day hip-hop experience. plus the kid just like never shuts up. he was, without any doubt, about 180 emotional degrees away from where i was. which just spiraled me further into the funk.
sunday dragged. i saw the maestro for all of 10 minutes. it was funny, but not ha-ha funny, 'cause all weekend i was surrounded by people, and the only one i wanted to see or talk to was him. it's all a bit much for me lately, all the things that need to be changed or worked on or fixed. all the things that are frustrating or disappointing. i'm lonely a lot. even when i'm with people, i'm lonely. sometimes i feel like i'm about to cry, and i feel like that could be a good thing - get it all out you know? - but it never comes.
in other news, i'm broke until someone gets me the rest of the rent money. and by broke i mean, i got $6 in my pocket and $17 in my checking account. i need to go grocery shopping pretty badly and not having money stresses me out. my dearest 'nita is not moving to the city as she indicated a month ago, but to sweden instead. which is awesome for her, and i'm very excited for her, but it really reinforces my own lack of movement and risk-taking. i'm so bored, it's making me really depressed.

last night was another insomnia night. awake from 4am-ish to after 5. getting up this morning super sucked. plus i had really weird dreams including one where i thought i had actually been awake all night and it was 4am, so i just decided to stay up all night. (this, by the way, is not what one could refer to as restful sleep. if you're dreaming that you've been awake all night, when you wake up, you really feel like you've been frickin' awake.) and another dream where i'm not really sure what was going on but i remember thinking 'geez, i really don't want to die' so..... i guess that's good? i don't want to die. good. nice to know.
went out to a show at thee parkside last night, despite not having a single damn (dammed?) soul to join me. i really felt like going, so i went. at the 22 bus stop (which i had to wait at for like 25 min for the bus to arrive. lame.) some drunk homeless woman started yelling at me from across the street. she asked the red haired chick sitting next to me to get my attention and then asked what i was doing. waiting for the bus, i tell her. she claims several buses have gone by, but she's also drinking something out of a paper bag and doesn't appear to have a place to live so any information from her is suspect. she introduces herself, says her names trisha, still yelling across the street. i tell her my name, say it's nice to meet you, and shrug at the red-haired chick next to me who is giggling a little. hey, i hang out at bloody 16th & mission. this is by no means my first altercation with a drunk, homeless person. at least she's not a crackhead, right?
gimmie a dollar, trisha yells. sorry, i don't got a buck, i tell her. (yes, i did have a buck. i had several. however, they were all earmarked for pbr. my pbr). gimmie a buck, or you won't make it home tonight, she shrieks at me.
now, what happened here? i humored her. wasn't disrespectful or anything. but, gimmie a buck or you won't make it home tonight? really?
do not fucking threaten me, i yell back at her. that is totally not acceptable! i start up a conversation with Red and her two male friends so as to ignore whatever trisha is yelling at me while casually transferring my celly phone and lighter to my purse and putting pepper spray in the pocket of my hoodie. she gets up, i tell Red, and comes over here, you gimmie a heads up.
Red doesn't notice when trisha comes across the street to greet another drunk who is passing by. we all notice when trisha steps up to me and firmly smacks me on the ass.
do. not. fucking. touch. me. i am instantaneous in my reaction. there is no hesitation. my right hand hovers around my pocket. that is not okay. i don't know you and you do not get to put your fucking hands on me!
trisha reaches out her hand to shake, i'm trisha, she says, like now it's all okay 'cause we've been formally acquainted. yeah, i got it, i tell her. we're good, i say firmly. she walks away. i look at Red and the Two Boys, i can't believe that i have to go home and tell my roommates that i got smacked on the ass by a homeless woman, i tell them. they invite me to the gold cane for drinks, but i'm on my way to the show.
i get to the show, have a shot of tequilla, and three beers. watch the band, strike up conversations with a few folks (mike, and dan-o, holler.) and share a cab home. it's not a bad night, but in the end i spent like $30 to drink by myself, watch a band i'd seen before, and have conversations with people who i may never, ever see again. it kinda felt... like a million other nights. nothing special, you know?
in the morning, between the sleep deprivation, the pms (and goddamn does that suck. i feel wierd and sick and really emotional. lame.), the weird dreams, and the weird night, all i want is to lay in bed with someone wrapped around me and feel comfort.
all i really need is a damn good hug and no one is around.

it's happening again.
the insomnia is back. went to bed early-ish only to wake up at some ungodly hour ( my eyes were too blurry to read my bedside clock and when i reached to turn the light on, i thought better of it. it is probably much better that i do not know at precisely what time it is i woke right up in the middle of the night. it is enough to say that it was a dark and cozy hour and that my roommates were not making any noise at all. which means it was probably around 3 a.m.).
and i almost passed out on the 5 bus this morning. again. this is, i think, the third time this year that i have asked someone to move from their seat because i thought i was gonna pass out. i'm going to get a reputation. it is a little ridiculous though, and i'm somewhat embarassed. i think it was just way to many people crowded onto that bus. i need a bike.
watched dr. strangelove with the maestro this weekend 'cause i'd never seen it. we were drinking in the sun at zeitgeist and then went back to my house and ordered burritos and such. it was nice that my couch is large enough to hold both of us lying down. (also kinda nice that i'm dating a guy whose willing to lie down on that couch with me but whatev.) C found a picture last night of me and the maestro that must have been taken years ago (my hair was still red and C says it's when S was dating his former roommate) but is so obviously dolores park it's hysterical. it's a black and white pic, taken by former roommate girl, and it's pretty good, of both of us. and it's neat to me for some reason. and it makes me smile.
been having some trouble with the whole pen-on-paper thing. the maestro is trying to take advantage of chza's fancy new copier machine and wants everyone to turn in a poem on the 2nd thursday of the month, so that we can get a chapbook-type dealie out on the third thursday and then everyone can read their poems that appear in the book. a good amount of people turned up with poetry last thursday. i, as a supporting and somewhat participatory member of the group, turned something in.
but i hate it.
it's terrible. it's not good. and it makes me feel poorly about my abilities as a writer. so i've been struggling with it - i got B to edit the shit outta it, and it's better. i think i should be able to memorize it, read it on thursday, and then hopefully never think about it again. i don't like it. and i couldn't really find a way to see how to fix it. and then B - in a way that was helpful but stung a bit - pointed out that it's not really about anything. i wasn't really saying anything.
for some reason this awarded me some insight. which was helpful because last night, i really needed to hear what C was saying. although i haven't had an actual decent conversation with him since he's been on antibiotics, he was making some good points that tied in nicely with the previous conversation i had with B.
which were - poetry, in and of itself, should never start with a bad idea. so what do you really have to say? what's the most crazy thing you've experienced, witnesses, participated in, etc? also to be kept in close contact with the idea that a) you should write about something and b) pay attention to what you really want to say and express is c) in ancient greece the idea of insanity and exile were pretty much the same thing, so take your personally experience of exile and insanity and make sure that it informs how you are expressing the previous ideas.
all of which was kinda a nice breakthrough/epiphany type thing for me. i needed to hear it, felt better after thinking on it for a while, and was glad that i live with people who could tell it to me. however. what do i really have to say? what have i really done that is insane and incredible? how is my voice unique and all?
all i have to say lately is damn, i'm bored. and i can't think of anything that incredible that i've done in a while. and i'm pretty sure that my voice has been pretty trite and predictable lately. so i got all in a tizzy and worried that i'm just a dumb, empty person. then i realized that was stupid, because i'm not. neurotic? totally. naive? somewhat. stupid? no, not really.
but i still can't think of anything to say.

i know. i know. i have been a most unfaithful blogger.
however, to be fair - most of you reading this have had recent phone conversations with me. here's the deal: i work, come home and either try desperately to work on the same stupid poem over and over again for a chapbook that should be out in 8 days (i'm dubious but always willing to try), or writing something else, or watching way, way to much 24 (keifer sutherland is jack bauer, man of action and phone calls. i keep a death list of how many people they knock off in a 24-hour period/season. it amuses. aaaanyhow), or cleaning and reorganizing my immediate living space in order to avoid writing (which lately has been about as easy as running waist-deep in water).
but all my roommates work nights and pretty much everybody else is across town (too far) or in another city entirely (waaay to far). so i've actually been writing a fair amount. and playing. this pleases me.
in the vein of actually getting writing things done - i'm hoping to (by the end of the week but no promises, i'm a total flake), get the first enstallment of a new series up here. it's called transcriptions from the porch. basically a play-by-play of random conversations across random
porches in san francisco (real, imagined or too closed to home). it could be boring. it could be true, awful, enjoyable or illuminating. it could just be something i do to keep my fingers typing.
either way - you'll read it. 'cause ya know, you're already reading this fer crissakes.
okay. i'm going to go kill the bug that's flying around my room and actually finish this thing so
that y'all have something better to read than my thinly-veiled emotional dumps.
(if i haven't talked to you, call me, i miss you)