Friday, November 30, 2007

Some Sketches

I wrote some voice over sketches for my friend Caitlin, who is making a movie about a girl running through the woods. Here is a selection for you to read.


This afternoon, I woke up running. I’m not sure how I got here, or why my hands are covered in ink, blood and leaves. I just woke up running here, so I figured I might as well keep running.

I’m tired. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. The thought of stopping makes me panic, so I keep moving. It seems like there are plenty of miles left to run in these woods.

I can see them in my periphery. They are watching me run from behind the bushes and trees. I don’t know who they are. I’m tired.

I think it is them, who hung the lanterns. I can’t be sure. I can still see them peering at me. I’m afraid I might stumble. I can’t feel my legs.

(a boy begins to run along side of her)

He is not even looking at me. I am faster than him, but not by much. He is running with me now, but I don’t even know where I’m going. I think am leading him, but we have nowhere to go.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Please don't tell, the day of the dead, mysterious alleyways awash with green light, and the Backdoor.

Performance art? Spell casting? Seance to rouse the spirit of H.P. Lovecraft? Bizarre lesbian mating rituals?

An account of secret activities by my recent partner in crime, E Frances.

Cher is a filthy cunt.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Loveless Love Child # 20

Alyssa is in the darkroom again. She drops the blank paper into the developer. The smell of ammonia is noxious, she stumbles about, just a little dizzy. It is midnight and no one is with her. The image of a face appears slowly on the paper. Alyssa uses the tongs to swirl it about in the chemicals. The face looks up at her. She does not know whom the face belongs to. She moves the paper into the stop bath and breaths deeply. Alyssa takes a painkiller at her enlarger, and chases it with the Budweiser she brought with her into the darkroom.

Alyssa moves the face, again, into the fixative. She is still alone. She will likely be alone for the rest of the night. Alyssa stands above the fixative and stares at the face. It is a collection of features, without color or very much definition. It floats and spins away from her. She spins it back with the tongs. Alyssa feels wild while staring at the face.

A number of faces have smiled at Alyssa. She remembers an interview of a porn star she heard on the radio once. The porn star said something that affected her greatly.

Journalist: You’ve never been known to keep a steady lover. Some people would say you’re incapable of love.

Porn Star: Yes people say that.

Journalist: Have you ever been in love?

Porn Star: I loved every man I’ve ever had sex with. The moments they were inside me, that’s when I loved them. I loved them all deeply. I’ve been in love hundreds of times. How many times have you been in love?

Journalist: Uh . . .

Alyssa looks at the face. She feels relatively loveless. She drinks her beer. Alyssa has herself been in love many times. No one has ever been in love with Alyssa. She drinks her beer. Alyssa takes the face out of the fixative. She hangs it on a line above the chemicals. It dripped as it hung. Alyssa looked at the face she just hung. Alyssa fell a little in love with the face.

Sunday, November 25, 2007


My dad came to visit my sister and I for Thanksgiving. We are quite close. He is mega dope.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Windowless Love Child #10

Amanda almost fell in love again. She has just returned from a two hour-long walk. Amanda intends to lie entirely still for exactly three hours without falling asleep. A rapid succession of shallow breaths help her ease out of the anxiety to move, to scratch the nagging mosquito bite on her left ear she received in her sleep the pervious night. There is no music in playing in the room where Amanda lies. She is five minutes in, and feels a little burst of accomplishment.

Amanda lets emotions glide through her. Soft, subtle ones. They are the kinds of emotions one might not even recognize they were feeling if they were out and about. These emotions require absolute nothingness, or as close to that as any person can come.

“Windows of opportunity,” Amanda thinks to herself. Then she thinks of nothing and she feels a very slight nausea creeps into her throat. Amanda desperately fights gagging, because that too would be moving. There is a cool breeze wafting into her room from the window and hitting the door, seemingly stopping dead there. Amanda has goose bumps and would like to pull a blanket over herself. She does not move.

Amanda thinks about being almost in love again. Amanda’s cunt becomes wet. She has to fight to urge to writhe and claw at herself. Breath is becoming labored, very small amounts of sweat bead at her temples. A loving hate surfaces. Amanda grows increasingly wet as she thinks some more about windows of opportunities, about how often they close. Amanda is loosing her tolerance for not moving.

Without much thought, Amanda’s hand sinks down between her thighs. Her fingers move in and around her cunt. She avoids touching her clit at all costs. She occasionally pokes the first knuckle into herself, and then quickly retracts it, filled with shame and guilt. Then she does it again, an additional finger each time. Amanda’s left hand migrates away from her left nipple and down to join the affections of her right. She pushes three of her fingers deep inside herself and is a little surprised by the texture, as she always is. Her left hand gently skims the outer areas of her cunt. Amanda uses her left forefinger to touch her clit. First she makes it sufficiently 
lubricated by letting the finger join its dexteritous comrades inside of her. Then with her right hand still immersed, she delicately circles her clit, to avoid too much stimulation, which can be quite painful. Amanda explores herself this way for about 3 and a half minutes, almost orgasming a few times, but holding back as well as she could. She takes her right hand and removes it from herself and drifts to her asshole and shoves her middle finger exactly two knuckles in, quickly and without hesitation and at that moment whimpers pathetically and spasms slightly.

She lies on the bed quivering, ashamed for another two hours.


I was advised by two people not to blog this one, as it is too smutty and might invite a bad readership. I think the two people who told me this are both very kind people, who were only looking to be helpful and protective in a small way. I am posting it anyways because I mean, everybody needs a little smut in their lives.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Think And Feeling The Words (tingle my braaainz)

I've read two blogs recently that made me very excited about words.

I think you should read them both, they are quite different, and both extremely good.




Monday, November 19, 2007

bad ass bitch

All that has been written by men about women should be suspect, for the men are at once the judge and party to their own lawsuit.

- Poulain de la Barre

Sundays and Goals

25 Year Goals

* win the Palme d'Or at Cannes

* write a book or direct a movie that gets banned at a public high school


As of late, my Sundays generally belong to fellow obsessive diarist, Ellen Frances.


Saturday, November 17, 2007

Ho Hum Just Some Things

Things I Have Never Done On a Date But Might Like To
hot air balloon ride
beat up bums
time travel
not put out
go to a pet store
commit fraud of some variety
travel out of the country
square dance
murder someone
take a nap instead of talking
kidnap a cripple nun and put her somewhere funny

Thing I Kind Of Want To Do Right Now But Won't Cause I'm Tired And Have A Little Cold
jump on the bed

Things I Had For Breakfast This Morning
chocolate chip pancakes
mango juice
lotsa coffee
orange slices
the company of a pretty lesbian and a bisexual roommate

Things That Happened After Breakfast
heard pretty lesbian and bisexual roommate have sex
took a shower
pet kitty
pulled kitty's tail
pet kitty again

Things That I Am Wearing Right Now
red cotton underwear
black lace bra
levis jeans
black and white polka dotted tank top
pink see-through t-shirt with big black hearts hand screen printed on it
heather grey hoodie
red wool sweater with gold buttons, two of them missing
red scarf with purple, blue, and green flowers (around neck like cowboy)

People I Wish I Could See Right Now, But Can't, For a Multitude Of Reasons
juan pedro
tennessee williams
lucky (RIP)
the last person i had sex with

Things On My Lap Right Now
red blanket with white vines and flowers
cell phone

Things I Might Do Tomorrow
go see a movie
eat a philly cheese steak sandwich
call brian
call mom
take a shower
do laundry
edit book
write love child story
smoke a lot of cigarettes
masturbate while watching pornography
pet kitty
count all my books
feel satisfied about how many books i have
drink myself to sleep

Things I Might Not Do Tomorrow
go skydiving
go flyfishing
read nostradomus predictions
take a shower
go for a run
get out of bed at all

Little Sister

Some things, they do not change.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Nancy Chan

I just read an interview with her on fecal face.

You work mostly in black and white, why is this, and are you afraid of the rainbow?

I don't feel I've exhausted all of the values that can come out of a pot of black and a pot of clear. Being aware of what I can pull out of black ink can make it incredibly daunting to consider what can be done with color, so it may be a while before I consider changing my palette. A lot of intense emotion can be evoked through color, also, and the subjects of my drawings tend to come from a calmer place.

She is amazing. I want to hold hands with her.

see inside for details

Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy

I don't usually do this. But I made a journal entry tonight, that I am going to post here.


November 14, 2007

Today I had an encounter with a little boy. I was walking down 5th Avenue in Brooklyn, to the train after work. I saw him from a few hundred feet away and smiled. He was very small, about three feet tall. There were flags planted in the sidewalk outside the pizza shop, which his mother was inside. He stood, bent over, shaking the flagpole. He looked like the famous photograph of the men raising the American flag in Japan. He was quite beautiful. A small Mexican child. As I was approaching, he was struggling to lift the flag out of the sidewalk. He succeeded and terror overwhelmed his face when he realized the weight of the flag. It began to crash down. An instinct moved me to grab the child. I ran to him, catching the flagpole just before it knocked his throat. It would not have killed him, but there would have been screaming for hours assuredly, if not a broken tooth or jaw even. We stayed locked in eye contact, this child and I. I was crouched to his height. We both held the pole and looked dead at each other’s eyes. We were paralyzed this way.

“It’s okay,” I said.

I saw his hands grip tighter. We continued to stare. His mouth was agape. We both held the flagpole. The American flag foundered awkwardly in the misty wind of the evening.

His mother jerked him away by the collar. I watched them for a moment, then put my hood back up and redirected myself back towards the train. I have never felt like a hero before.

He looked like my brother did when he was a baby. Before the fetal alcohol syndrome had taken noticeable effect. When Juan Pedro was Zack Malone, and he was still sweet and promising and no one had even the faintest idea that he could grow to be a sociopath. I felt a lump develop in my throat and I couldn’t fight off the onslaught of tears that followed shortly.

It was Juan’s birthday on the 9th. I still haven’t called him. I don’t know why. He is probably hurt. He has never missed a phone call on my birthday.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007


no one does an exclamation point like the russians

Naturally Masochistic Love Child # 16

Leah awoke with wine stains on her tongue and lips. She got out of
bed, undressed, and ran to the bathroom. Leah started the shower, to
allow it to heat up before entering. While waiting, Leah stood
motionless and tired in front of the mirror. She watched herself,
waiting for a reaction. There was none.

Leah stepped into the shower. She recoiled as the water first hit her
belly, as it had become too hot. She reached through the stream and
lowered the temperature, slightly contorted to avoid the scalding
water while she again, waited for it to achieve a desirable
temperature. As the water cooled, Leah's body relaxed and allowed
itself to be rinsed. Leah reached for the shampoo. She held the bottle
in her hands, suddenly unsure what to do with it. Leah began to weep.

Her body shook slightly at first. Then as the sobs heaved, she began
to convulse and twitch. Her body was moved beyond intention and
control. Leah continued to stand and weep as the water pelted her. It
was as though the shower was mocking her momentary display of

There was no reason for Leah to cry this morning. Nothing
significantly bad had happened to her recently. It was an accumulative
wail, something that had been building for months, possibly years.
Leah rests her head against the shower wall, so as not to fall over.
The small thud her head made on the shower gave her an unusual solace. She threw her head gently into the tile again. An endorphin rush
maybe, something, motivated her to do it again. And again. Leah was
no longer crying, but instead beating her head mercilessly against the
cool shower wall. Blood began to stream, but Leah silently continued
her rhythm. Leah felt no pain; she only perceived the beautiful thud
made by her skull against wall.

As a baby Leah was famous for a bizarre behavior. Her parents coined this activity “the three point landing”. Leah would, without warning or reason, fall to her little baby knees and set her little fat baby hands firmly in place on the floor, directly below her shoulders. She would then proceed to beat her little soft baby head against the ground until restrained, forced to stop. This was how she acquired the poorly interpreted nick name from her father, “Existential Leah”, that still sticks with her to this day.

One might say Leah is a natural masochist. Born with a high threshold for pain, and an undauntable will to destroy herself.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Quick Successions of Footwear

Some girls go crazy fer shoes. I suppose some boys do too. Lisa Paclet is one of these gals, and she is also a DJ and animator. She made this little video I think to project at a club while she spins hot hot shit. I'm not a shoe person, I mostly wear sneaks and moccasins (not a fashion statement!!! they are everywhere in Minnesota cause of the natives and are extremely comfortable, I swear I'm not quirky), but I thought the craft on this little guy was nicely done and it looks pretty and it makes me want to sit down with a shoe girl and have them explain to me all the illustrious details- belts and buckles- of their shoe collection.

Go here to watch SHHHOOOOEEESSS!!!!

(it's sunday and i'm bored as shit)

Saturday, November 10, 2007


today is a sad day, indeed.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007



thank you james, for sending this my way, you may have save my life


Squid Grid, I think

Pretty much the best image ever.

My heart, it palpitates.


Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Anxious Love Child #12

Lisa is sitting on the floor. Lisa is having an anxiety attack. Her flesh wants to leap from her skin. Lisa does not like herself. Lisa is afraid of life and not doing it right. Lisa is not intelligent or anything more than mediocre. She knows people see this; she knows before they passive aggressively tell her this. Lisa is having and anxiety attack. Her heart is beating erratically. Lisa is scared for her life, though it is rarely if ever in danger. Lisa thinks about her mother. Lisa thinks about her father. Lisa is having an anxiety attack. Lisa is close to vomiting. Lisa is grappling and failing near publicly. Lisa is having an anxiety attack. Lisa is having an anxiety attack. Lisa is having an anxiety attack.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

The Worst Album Covers Ever Created?

I stumbled across this last night.

more . . .

Not Entirely Faithless Love Child #11

Ashley lied on her back, covered by only a sheet in his sun-soaked room recounting a conversation from the previous night.

“That bitch psychic was a hack.”

“Well, yeah. Why did you say that just now?”

“I was supposed to meet a soul mate within two weeks of seeing her. It’s been two weeks tomorrow.”

“Oh. Let’s go find a more expensive one next time.”


He was finally sleeping. He had been restless all morning. Fifteen minutes prior, Ashley was overtaken by haste. Exhausted by his grumbling and squirming, she flipped back the comforter and proceeded to give him a blowjob. He had been tense and she could sense it. She put her whole heart into her mission. She tenderly worked until he came in her mouth, then rolled to the side and scratched his head. He fell asleep shortly and Ashley felt proud that her ambitions to calm him had worked so properly. She rolled on her side, and he quickly pulled her alarmingly close. He gripped her torso in a desperate and thankful way and continued his decline into much needed sleep.

One hand rested on her belly, the other between her breasts. Ashley laced her fingers between his. She felt his thumb and receive a tiny shock to her senses. There was a small vertical ridge running the length of his nail bed. She thought of her first love. He was her high school sweet heart. He had a similar ridge, a remnant of a near fatal accident he was in as a child. She often used to fondle the ridge with her fingertips, finding a discrete comfort in this defining feature. She knew if she suddenly went blind, this would be the most important part of his body. Since then, she had always felt the thumbs of her various lovers, looking for the ridge and feeling crestfallen to find it was never there.

Ashley now herself could not sleep. She watched her new lover sleep. Although more than a decade older than her, he had a child-like expression on his face just then. She smiled still feeling his thumb. Ashley is not entirely faithless. She has no tolerance for any belief system that had boundaries and rules, and thus cannot bring herself to identify with any particular religion. However, she found solace in very small expressions of faith. She often wished when the clock stuck 11:11; falling stars, friendship bracelets (she had yards of yarn, ribbon and string tied to her wrist at any given time), saying god bless you upon a sneeze, blowing out candles, etc, are all things that moved her to feel less lonesome in some vapid greater scheme. Ashley has a habit of burying objects in the ground as well.

Ashley made a decision to return to the bitch hack psychic later that afternoon.

The Walk Of Shame

I try to keep this blog restricted to flash fiction/links/photo chronicles. Every so often I have a wonderful night. Thankfully, Ellen does not feel the same way about her delightfully gossipy and catty bloggeroo.

Go here to see Grandma Kendra get a little wild.

Friday, November 02, 2007

In The Lair Of Lake Lerna

It was recently unveiled to me that an ex-boyfriend of mine monickered me as hydra after our relationship was terminated. I feel this is fitting as hell.

Tiny And A Little Spooky

Spending time with her always ends up awkward. It’s the kind of awkward that make me feel happy and strange because I’m not sure why no matter what we are doing or where we are I feel happy like I do when I’m with my sister. I never regret anything I say when I am with her. We wrote each other letters for an entire year before I ever met her. Sometimes I get so excited about having a friend like her I am filled with the urge to head butt her or push her suddenly, but I don’t because I don’t like the idea of making her feel bad or confused. She is a bizarre person. Tiny and a little spooky. Sometimes I think if anyone I know is capable of passionate murder, it would most likely be her.

She took me to karaoke bar under the Chelsea hotel one night. We didn’t like the other people there, and the bar tender was flirting with us while we were trying to share our life stories with each other. She always wears all black and drinks wine slowly. She does not think she is good at anything, and it makes me mad that it is obvious that I can’t convince her otherwise. She talks about wanting a pet bat and sometimes listens to Mary J. Blige in a way that is not even a little ironic.

That night she kept trying to talk me into singing karaoke. It was not going to happen. I didn’t want to be stared at. She thought making an example of herself and being brave would get me to do it. I like that she was encouraging me by putting herself at risk, it was a generous way to make someone comfortable and that’s when I first realized that she was a really good person. She timidly got up on the stage and Liza Minnelli from Cabaret started playing. She was smoking a cigarette even though it wasn’t allowed. She closed her eyes and started singing. I had no idea she had a pretty voice. She drowned all the rest of us out and held the microphone like it was a life support machine. She liked being looked at; you could tell she was absorbing some sort of peace from it. Two men sitting near me asked me if I knew her and I felt exceptionally proud to say yes. I wanted badly to shrink her down and keep her in my pocket. I thought about building her a spooky little dollhouse and making her feel safe and finding her a nice spooky little skinny boyfriend and shrinking him down too. They could have a teeny tiny little spooky family and stay small and safe and happy and I could take her with me in my pocket when I needed emotional support for something, or when I went on a date I wasn’t sure about so she could help me size up the boy.

She could have stayed up on that stage indefinitely and I would have been curious for the rest of my life about her and what she must be thinking and feeling at any given time.