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Dirty Laundry

beat that dead horse

Nikki 3.0



August 1st, 2009

According to some, a romantic nature is a disease of the mind like undifferentiated schizophrenia.  

It used to mean a deep, spiritual relationship with Nature, sometimes via the "precious balm" of the poppy. As much was true for my good friend Novalis and  others who spent their days talking to the trees, Grecian urns or leaves of grass (my ass)!

It means to me a desire to connect, to be connected to the infinite not necessarily through the individual person but through the individual moment.  Not knights in shining armor or long-stemmed roses or the dreaded diamond.

Like Novalis, I am at the mercy of a passionate heart and an over-educated brain.  The groundswell of my emotion is like the deep Pacific whipped by rattling thoughts as if by a hurricane.  For me, the romantic connection is to be able to stare into the depth of that ocean with out the din of the storm. It's peaceful contemplation.

Whether I am looking at the city skyline or the cracked blue turquoise of the subtropical ocean, or into the eyes of a man, I am stirred by millions of bucking, meandering thoughts.  In every way possible I try to become one with the moment; to remove the barrier that my consciousness has constructed in order to make sense of things.  Being part of the moment is to float above sense, outside the jurisdiction of meaning with no regard for the rational, logical or sensible.

I guess I can see why the "enlightened" ones (by which I do NOT mean the Bodhisattva) saw Romanticism as the enemy of Reason.  It pierces through Reason, it shatters its illusion of Truth, it sees that there is only the truth of the moment and that moment is singular.

The cruelty of the Romantic connection is that it is as fleeting as the moment itself.

January 22nd, 2009

What a rainbow of fruit flavors.

The new president of our country is Obama and TGFT!!!

I got a new tattoo of a girl and her snake (less phallic than it sounds...I think).  It is my first big tattoo. I got a little one of a horse last year but nothing like this.  This one took three hours (just for the outline and some shading) and sure it hurt but it also was pleasurable. I can't wait for the color. My  I feel like this marks the end of this period of wallowing and circling the blocks.  Now is time to move on.  In my life, I have always made a physical gesture to mark a new transition and this is a doozy.

I have been having some backlash issues regarding my sexuality.  Particularly, it is difficult to be bisexual-- to still have feelings for women and to miss an entire life, community, sense of being---and to be in a relationship with a man.  This tattoo is partly to remind me of who I am, of my own strength and the beastial beauty of my sexuality. The woman in it is sexy but strong, her hand hooks in the mouth of the snake, holding it open.

Nobody else may get it but I really don't care. The tattoo starts with the arc of the widest part of the snake's body at the curve of my hip and the girl's boots grazing the top left side of my knee. Nobody has to see it unless I want them to.  ;-p

  I will post pictures as soon as I get my camera from work.

January 7th, 2009

cul de sac

Cold rainy nights like tonight are perfect for slow cooking some chicken stew. Mmmm. The smell is all wafty and delicious.

I just need to start with no agenda. Forget PDAs, itinerary, to-do lists and character sketches. I simply take a page out of the book.

I want to empty out. So much clutter has accumulated through the years and it is entirely unhelpful.

My mind is filled with so many oppositions that it wastes a way in a state perpetual deconstruction. If only this led to peaceful quiet instead of confusion.
The sloth, inertia and self indulgence are like a warm bed with silk sheets and pleasant smelling candles on either side. The only thing that gets me out of it is this desire to do something, to not let this life be an intoxicated and dreamy waste. I could easily slip into day after day of sex and chocolate buffered by the softness of drugs and alcohol. Actually that sounds pretty good right now. But there is no sense of balance. Once I get myself out of this bed I am confused, over-stimulated and agitated. I think about all of the great people doing great things and how I am just a hot mess, at times a brilliant, shiny diamond but the luster only comes out on occasion like the good silver. I feel like if I could just find the right road it would end somewhere good, but I’m too afraid to take the highway and am sticking to neighborhood cul de sacs.

January 5th, 2009

Some things never change

So little old injury prone me spent Friday in the ER getting x-rays of my foot. Not broken, just badly sprained. So I've been off my foot, on crutches and landlocked.

I've been having intensely weird dreams every night for at least a month. The other night I dreamed I was a soldier and Philadelphia was having a civil war--I was marching up JFK boulevard wearing a naval uniform. Between that and the dreams of radiation I'm not getting any quality sleep.

I am ready for 2009 to bring big life changes. Bring them, bitches!!!

December 17th, 2008


I couldn't believe how quickly Monkey Boy ducked.  It was as if he knew those shoes were coming.

December 12th, 2008

"Two weeks ago, the Death Star that has hovered over the art world for the last two years finally fired its lasers." Jerry Saltz for New York Magazine.

In other related news...

It's been a while since I've been on LiveJournal. I feel like I was sucked into a black hole, demolecularized and then spat back out looking relatively unchanged.

The question of where I am going remains the same.  I applied to grad schools.  Got rejected. Got accepted. Didn't go. Now I'm applying again. I do some stuff to get me by* and try to get some damn writing done.  I most likely drink too much and write too little.

But it's been fun.

*what is commonly referred to as "work"

February 26th, 2007

I guess now that I graduated college it will take the place of high school in those dreams I have.  You know, the ones in which you realize you haven't been going to class in months or you show up to class naked.  

I could tolerate my job when it was only 15-20 hours a week.  Now I'm going stir-crazy standing in the store for 8-9 hours at a stretch.  There's so much of the world to see and I see the same four walls. Or two sets of four walls.  I can't imagine what it must be like in prison where those walls are pretty much the only things you see.  At least when the end of my shift rolls around I can leave. It reminds me of those ads for Oz they used to have on the subway platform--basically no matter how bad your life seems, you could be subjected to random shankings and anal rape. I guess that's perspective.

This leads me to the question of freedom.  There's freedom in the sense of action, which an individual has even in a given closed system (like work, prison or a concentration camp).  In a circumstance in which you must obey or face punishment or death, the choice is to simply follow orders, follow orders with rebellion in the heart and a faith in some divine justice or disobey and accept the consequences.

February 24th, 2007

the big, bad infinite


I've been doing an inordinate amount of reading and writing lately, much of it internet based, which makes me wonder whether the blog-frenzy is taking effluvia to a whole new level. Writing and communication goes in and out of circulation at a mindblowing pace. At the same time, at least as long as the internet and computer technology persists, we are creating unparalleled personal records, capturing time in dimensions Proust could never fathom.

Ah technology.

In her book in Why Modernism Failed, Susie Gablik talked about a concept she referred to as 'the bad infinite,' which she perceived to be an epidemic particular to modernism, in which there is so much (in her case art) available that an overwhelming relativism ensues.  The internet is like one gargantuan chasm of the infinite, so much of it horrid, all of it reducible to machine code. At the end of the day there is no substance to any of it.  But if you really think about it, that's language all around, really.  Empty symbols with no substantive referents.  If there were nobody left who spoke a human language, even the tomes of literature we have amalgamated into our canon would be only useful as toilet paper.
But in order not to fall into the trap of nihilism, it is necessary to pin a belief to one point that, almost as an issue of faith, one assumes to be true.  All of this digital chatter is useful inasmuch as it connects individuals together at a point in time.  That connection, as insubstantial as it is, is to some degree real and has direct, perceivable effects on the world. 

February 9th, 2007

(no subject)

I have not written on livejournal for awhile but that's not because I haven't been writing.  I have this short-term gig writing reviews for the website  It's normally consumer-posted reviews but they're trying to carve out a satellite in Philadelphia so that's where I fit in.  It's fun but requires a lot of my writing energy.

Also, I just moved.  The new apartment is not as fancy-shmancy as the last but I like it.  I'm in a completely different part of town so I get to explore. I find this somewhat energizing.  That said, I've been sick for the past two days so not so much with the exploring.  

I just went through all of my clothes and got rid of a whole lot of stuff.  There's more that I should probably toss but I can't bring myself to do it yet.  The question is am I past short skirts? My legs are still pretty sexy but I just turned thirty. Not that I look thirty or act thirty or whatever that means anyway.  I am pretty frustrated with the whole clothes situation at the moment.  

On the creative front, I have been working on a story/novel/novella some sort of fictional piece.  I haven't written fiction seriously in quite awhile but it's coming back to me.  It's amazing my capacity to think myself into a corner, though.  I start reading something somebody else wrote and confuse the hell out of myself.  I'll feel better when I get about fifty pages down.  

I think I'm an X-box widow.

January 19th, 2007

For the foodies...

So much beer going down my gullet this week that I’ve had little time to write. Here is the long and short of it:
First, there was the Mared Sous giveaway at Eulogy which was good fun. Not only did was I across the bar from Joann, one of my favorite cute girl bartenders in the city, but I got free Belgian beer. It could only be beat if I were actually in Belgium or better yet Amsterdam. One of these days…one of these days. I was also graced with the presence of my role model bartender Neill who works at Eulogy as well. He’s good for lots of laughs and overall snarkasm. In the end I was fairly inebriated and in a good, happy way.
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