As pants the hart for cooling streams...

"My little studio has never been profaned by superficial, feverish, mercenary work. It’s a temple of labour, but of leisure! Art is long. If we work for ourselves, of course we must hurry. If we work for her, we must often pause. She can wait!"
-- Henry James, "The Madonna of the Future"

Since I am working for Art and not myself I shall pause objectively and with good humor, trusting in my Muse's eventual return, rather than inwardly launch invectives of bitter self-reproach (today, at least).

I have noticed this capacity for objective thinking and prudent, pruned-in action emerges in me only when my emotions and physical impulses are at a very low ebb.

Example: I read 3 of the driest Henry James novels by 10 am today, and have no desire whatsoever to jog.

Other objective thoughts:

I have noticed that every time I date someone who captivates me physically, the focus and ardent attention I usually reserve for quiet union with the Divine seems to divert itself into entirely sensual channels upon which I concentrate instead.

Psalm 42 says:

"As pants the hart for cooling streams
When heated in the chase,
So longs my soul, O God, for thee,
And thy refreshing grace..."

Yet how easily does my mind substitute an inward-seeking "heated in the chase" longing for God with an outward-searching one for pleasure with Man!

Even so, I refuse to believe any interaction rooted in true affection (on my end, at least, I can confirm) is otherwise than blessed by, as well as the essence of, true Divinity.

PS It was my little brother's birthday yesterday. He is now 15. I hope to see his dear little self very soon, and figure out some way to do it which does not involve him finding out I'm an "Off-Broadway dancer for matinee shows" as a friend recently and politely termed my occupation.

PS 2 I just realized, with the exception of art modeling, which I did for 7 years, most of my other jobs have all lasted almost precisely 6 months apiece. I wonder if this will hold true for dancing?

Birthday/Snailkiller/Kick the Dust

I know perfectly well my own egotism,
Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.
--Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"




Is it possible to acknowledge the ego's existence without unwittingly celebrating it? I wonder. I also wonder what it's like to denigrate people from a standpoint of constant superiority instead of viewing the world through a lens of perpetual inferiority, although both modes of being are equally stupid...

Now that I've been dancing for a month (mas o menos), I'm starting to notice the development of some appreciable muscle tone in my heretofore jiggly body. The process of toning up would probably be considerably expedited if I could manage to eat during my shift instead of afterward, but I can't seem to sit still long enough to nibble more than a few almonds in the strip club just yet. In order to gain some upper arm strength I've been practicing dangling from the bottom of the pole on the bar stage when nobody's around; hopefully I'll be hanging upside-down like a pro within the next few weeks; no sense in doing a job if one can't do it well...

My downstairs neighbors moved in the other day. Though the layout of the house is such that randomly bumping into one another will rarely, if ever, happen, I'm unbelievably glad to finally be sharing this big house with two other warm bodies-- it was starting to feel like the drafty, haunted house I lived in as a child, a converted hotel which was built in the 1800's and so creepy there were locks ON THE INSIDES of the closets. Shudder...

Anyway, in the interest of coming to terms with the horrible fact that I am now a year older, I decided the only way to stay sane yesterday was to do something useful and physically exhausting, thereby (theoretically) achieving some peace through physical catharsis.

My spacious-for-Brooklyn backyard has functioned as a trashheap of almost fantastic proportions (kind of like the mile-high leaf pile/dumping ground in the garden of the Gorgs from “Fraggle Rock”) for far too long for my pathologically resourceful Midwestern sensibilities, so I decided I'd do my new neighbors and myself a favor and clean it up so we can make the most of the patio and barbecue pit.

It looked horrible at first.

I was delighted to resuce a snail from the underside of a log I moved. It was cute.

A child talked to me from the window of the apartment building next door for awhile. She was cute, too.

After awhile I noticed a strange crunching sensation under my feet, as if I were walking on eggshells. With horror, I noticed-- too late-- the bodies of about a jillion yellow snails, smashed to fragments unwittingly under my feet, tragic victims killed in the process of clearing away the wood and cinderblocks under which they had been living. I tried valiantly to avoid them afterward, but to no avail. I cringed every time I stepped on one inadvertently, feeling like an SS soldier under Hitler “just doing my duty”. I rationalized that killing the snails was unavoidable and, really, sometimes one has to crack a few eggs to make an omelette in the name of a higher cause-- in this case, the facilitation of the twin virtues of utility and beauty.

Still, I really felt like a murderess.

It was fucking horrible to my delicate vegan sensibilities... you know, the ones that easily weathered 6 months spent stabbing men with large-gauge needles and beating them bloody in a Dungeon without a peep because of that magic-wand called CONSENT.

Poor snails. I hate myself!

It took a few hours, but I got some major work done; listening to soulful music made the time fly even more rapidly. I tried to limit my itunes playlist to Bushwick-friendly jams such as “PYT” (“Off the Wall” is played religiously at every block party in the summer round these parts) and old-school Keith Sweat to avoid alienating my neighbors/ getting the “Damn that's some honky shit, Pippy Longstocking” headshake listening to, say, New Kids on the Block would probably inspire. This is the hood, after all.

“Looks like you're doing some hard work!” my little neighbor from next door called from her window.

“Guess so, honey!” I said back to her, realizing this is, by the conservative American ethos, the only honorable way I've used my body for “work” in quite awhile. Achieving a goal using my physical being without factoring sexuality into the equation is pretty rare for me these days. It was a nice change.

Afterward, like the hookers after a catfight on the North Avenue Bridge I used to observe in Chicago and the disciples following Christ's sage advice after preaching to a rough crowd, I kicked the dust (or mud, in this case) from my shoes, gave myself a good, hard shake and met the rest of the evening's events as a fucking adult instead of a whining brat*.

Later on, I got a fabulous dinner, a beautiful cake from Babycakes, a bunch of (non-sexual) toys, books, treats, DVD's, cards, and other nice presents chosen thoughtfully and with impeccable taste.

I even heard the magic words:

“We should go look at puppies for you.”

Awww, maybe I'll get that Pomeranian puppy after all. Regardless, I can always buy one myself in a few weeks, though-- it's mostly a simple matter of decision, I suppose. Just like everything else in this life...

I still have high hopes that a POMERANIAN will be like CONSENT in that it will confer absolution and/or comfort in the aftermath of certain sticky situations.

PS I'm so emotionally retarded/dead sometimes I can't believe it. Blowing out the candles on a birthday cake that's a present from one man while thinking more fondly of another has gotta be the karmic equivalent of shooting a speedball-- spiritually, I'm sure I'll be kissing the floor pretty soon, but what else could I have done? I've been patient for so long, but I can't wait around forever... although I would, I suppose, if the circumstances were just right and the reason was love...

But that wasn't what happened last night.

I'm going to pray for an answer to this one ASAP. No way I want to do intentionally anything mean to anyone. I'm too grateful for the affection I receive than to treat the giver callously, even if the relationship is, by my estimate, a temporary one. I guess I can't coast anymore, wastes too much time and ultimately feels like a sin.

* I'd say bitch here, but I wisely avoid using that term pejoratively anymore

Birthday Blues

Enough! enough! enough!
Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand back!
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams,
gaping,
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
-- Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

Tomorrow my two greatest neuroses (aging and eating) converge on what is, for me, traditionally the most miserable day of the year: my birthday. I don't mean to imply that I'm ungrateful for my life. In fact, I love my life fiercely almost every day except my birthday, the one 24-hour span per annum I am most guaranteed to be legitimately insane and railing against the heart-wrenchingly confusing fact of existence itself. My breakdowns are no joke. Example: I was so stupified with the abject horror of turning 24 I didn't (or maybe couldn't) speak for two solid weeks.

To be pathetically honest, I can't count the birthdays past I have flashed back to my glory days as a competitive eater and, burned out from trying not to hyperventilate or drop to the floor in inexplicable sadness after a night spent with friends, had a midnight fit of semi-narcoleptic despair face down in a huge vegan cake, bought lovingly by my mother *

A well-meaning-yet-delusional relative (the same one who insisted on buying me a tv "in case of emergencies" after four years of blissful existence without one, immediately causing me to spiral into unproductive co-obsessions with "Oprah" and "Lost") who knows I can't handle birthdays recently sent me a care package consisting of a simple white ceramic crucifix to hang over my bed and 140 Oxycontin tablets enclosed with a hand-made card that said:

"Just in case, sweetie! Happy Birthday!".

Awesome. Well, at least I'll have the option of dulling the terrible waves of existential dread in my brain with drugs and religion (none of my relative are particularly religious, so they do their best to accommodate me, hence the crucifix) instead of locking myself in this unused spare-bedroom closet in my home I have been eyeing (I don't really cry, usually, so the best I can do is hide away in a small, darkened space. Just kidding. Pretty much.) :

Actually, since I don't ever take recreational drugs, I'll probably just throw them away or maybe give them to a friend and forget about closets without resorting to any medicine stronger than a nap or two.

Sometimes I invent lame excuses about why I can't bear to see anyone on my birthday, but I can never manage to deliver them with a straight face.

"I gave up my birthday celebration for Lent. It's a pretty paltry sacrifice compared to fasting for 40 days and nights, though... haha, just kidding, I actually just need some private time to have my annual nervous breakdown, but ya never know, this year might be smooth sailing, I have high hopes."

Every ten years my birthday falls on Easter, which was especially helpful when, a newly minted tea-totaler, I turned 21. My friends still thought I was just kidding about not drinking anymore, and were pretty determined to see me drink my weight in tequila just like the good ol' days.

Friend on phone: "Yeah! Let's get you drunk tonight!"

Me: "No way! You're such a heathen, do you think I'm getting smashed on the day we celebrate the miracle of Christ's resurrection? Fuck you!" (phone slam.)

Then I snickered and read Harry Potter books to my 8-year old brother for four hours the way I'd wanted to all along. Bars stay open just fine without me, I've found, and my friends know I love them sober.

Anyway, since Saturday my phone has been randomly erasing my unread texts, which I consider an act of blessed Providence. If I don't read the friendly yet psychologically devastating early birthday "sup!"(s) my opinion is they don't officially exist. Besides me, who really cares if I freak out on my birthday and avoid social contact, anyhow? It's my (perceived) loss, right? I'm grateful people care at all, believe me, but it doesn't help assuage the sting of aging. I'll tell them so.... after *IT* is safely over.

Who knows, tomorrow I may be able to follow through with some of the kind invitations to meet up with friends etc. I have been lucky enough, despite myself, to have received, or I may just sleep all day, half comatose with grief over my emerging crow's feet, white hairs and the paralyzing fact of my creative stasis.

Who cares....

* Why can't I stop eating cake in bed this week? I spilled an entire teapot of constant comment on my favorite duvet, and now, despite my best efforts, I have to replace it. I also recently discovered chocolate-raspberry ganache stains on my sheets. How bestial! I'm not so far gone that I can't--at the very least!--sit upright at a table while I'm binge-eating like a civilized human being...

PS I'd make a lot of money if I went to work tomorrow. Today some of my soon-to-be-regulars shelled out for extra lap dances, bonus! when I told them I'd soon be turning 21 or 19 or 23 (hahaha)-- but I probably should have just worked tomorrow instead-- everybody loves a stripper on her birthday, it seems. Ra.

PS2 It's not facing up to my mortality which makes me so crazy. Death-shmeth, I have a much more significant fear of crumbling into useless decay. Luckily I have a strong feeling that I may die young, which makes me feel a little bit better, believe it or not.

PS3 Getting a Pomeranian puppy would instantly make all this horror disappear, I'm convinced.

PS4 Or maybe I'll be able to behave in a reasonable, sensible manner on my birthday. Finally.