Reincarnation is a stretch, but I think I know what they're getting at.

A friend of mine tried DMT recently, and discovered that we are all one. Not just the human beings, but the ground and the sunlight too- every aspect of existence.

I spent a few hours with Jon and another friend, Tommy. We talked about it. Life, death, energy, the idea that our lives are made up solely of perception and framing.

Tommy, who's been through a lot of ups and downs in terms of his health, has been around a lot of death and dying. We all know that energy can't be created or destroyed- it just changes form. "Even if you die alone and lonely and unsuccessful, your energy goes on to be successful in other ways," Tommy said.

My father died, I daresay, a bit unhappy. I think he expected more from his life, and was consistently down on himself for never reaching his goals. After he died my life became a renaissance. I started writing more, creating more, feeling more. I became truly myself and fully confident in my own humanity. His death made me stronger than I had ever been in my life, and I feel I've grown more, and will continue to grow, as a result.

So this talk of death and energy really affected me. If his energy didn't die, but went somewhere else, did I inherit it? Is it possible that all of his unfulfilled expectations were thrust upon me? I've surpassed so many of my own expectations for my life, I've been more capable than I ever thought possible. I am so aware of my own possibilities now, and so confident that my life is, and will be, perfect. My father wasn't with me much in life, but maybe he's with me now. Maybe I'm taking on all his failed pursuits, taking them in and recycling them and making his failures my own successes. His energy, his life, it had to go somewhere. And what better vessel than an optimistic ME, with all the world at my feet?

I didn't do any drugs this weekend- I didn't need to. I simply realized that by nurturing sadness and regret, your life becomes sadness and regret. After my father died, I chose to nurture love, understanding, and optimism- and I've reaped those rewards.

Self-reliance is a tricky thing when you're paying rent and bills and buying groceries and trying to get through college. Thoreau might have had the right idea when he went off into the wilderness to live on his own. Then again, he got thrown in jail for tax evasion... so much for role models.

I moved out of my mom's house and into a new apartment with my boyfriend, and I thought I had made it. I had a job that paid my rent and some bills, and another job to cover the rest. Plenty of time for school and art and social life and home life. Ah, the good old days of last week.

My job ended yesterday, or was put on hiatus. It was my favorite job, and my former boss/current friend still remains one of my favorite people. It was just life, not my performance, that dictated the direction of my employment. I'm glad to have never been fired, but being laid off is a strange feeling.

It's making me realize just how dependent I really am. I pay my half of the rent and my half of the utilities, but if my boyfriend weren't here to cover half, I'd still be living across the hall from my mother. How independent am I, really, if being out of work means mooching off my boyfriend?

I'm sure I'll figure it out. In the grand scheme of things, this is a small hiccup. I'm amazed at how lucky I've been to hold onto jobs for long stretches of time, how much I've been able to impress my employers. I'm grateful that I was raised by a woman who understands the value of a hard day's work, who encouraged me (and continues to encourage me) to work as much as possible when I was younger, to develop experience and skills that will undoubtedly help me get another job.

And really, it could be worse. So much worse. I could be on the street. I could be pregnant. I could be just about anything, but no- I'm lucky. I'm an intelligent, well-mannered, enthusiastic and powerful young woman in New York Fucking City. How many people in the world would kill to have my problems? Tons. And when I get another job, I'll be grateful as hell, and I'll work my ass off.

And I will. I'll get another job, I'll finish college, I'll keep paying rent and insane bills and buying groceries and wine and video games, and it'll all work out. Right?

As I was fidgeting in bed getting ready for sleep last night, my boyfriend Jon and I found ourselves talking about lobsters. I don't know exactly how it came up but I remembered a favorite story. One night when I was very young, maybe 8 or so, my dad decided he'd make lobster for dinner. It sounded exciting. I knew lobster was fancy, you got to wear a bib, there was a special way to eat it. It sounded like fun. He put the creatures on the kitchen table, alive. A big pot of boiling water on the stove. Blue and yellow thick rubber bands around their claws. Antennae moving slowly and strangely. Steam rising. I'm sure that by this point I was terrified. My father always had the best scary laugh. He had perfected it so that on scary thunderstorm nights when I was trying to will myself to sleep, it would rumble through the house and terrify me; MWAHAHAH. He employed this laugh as he put the creatures into the boiling pot. I cried and begged him not to, and have not eaten lobster since.
Jon loved this story. I laughed, he laughed. We were silent for a moment and I said, "You two would have had so much fun torturing me." He agreed. It was nice.
I rolled over to close my eyes and try to sleep, but instead I nearly cried. I thought how strange it was that Jon and my father would never meet. They'd never have their awkward first encounter, never argue, never share a joke or cigar. If I get married, he won't silently judge me, won't walk me down the aisle, won't tell my husband, if you hurt her I'll break you legs.
I went to sleep sad.

I woke up happy, had some oatmeal, went about my day, and came across a story about Sarah Feather, who had battled ovarian cancer for several years. She had a husband and two children, and blogged about her experiences as The Carcinista to inspire and bond with survivors all over the world. She passed away today after deciding to stop treatment.
Thank god I still have my mother. She was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was, I think, 9. At the time I didn't understand the gravity of the situation, what cancer was, why everyone seemed nervous about it. My mom was tired a lot from the chemo and hired a woman to assist around the house, cook meals, help with mine and my brother's homework. When my mom's hair started falling out I'd run my fingers across her head, collect stands, roll them into soft little cushions.
She fought hard and she's still going strong today, cancer-free and just as kickass as always. It took me a long time to realize exactly what it takes to go through something as stressful, terrifying, and life-changing as cancer.

It's been a long day of memories and tears, all while trying to get work done, and to prepare for what is sure to be a long night working at the bar. I don't like being sad, but if it kicks my ass into getting words on a page, I'll take it.

2011. Big deal, I hear. I never measured life by the calendar, never felt a year older on my birthday. Felt older when I got a job, felt like a little girl when I got my heart broken. Stepping forward and backward through doorways and windows of elation and disappointment. 2010 must have been important, surely I'm older now. Still under the same roof but sleeping in a different room and the air is crisp in here. My cat likes me more now than she used to, seems to trust me in a different way. This time last year I was, what? Unhappy? Confused. Desperate and misled, but closer to my friends. Closer to old friends and further from new ones. I've always had jobs and school and was always willing to drop anything. I had my art but what was it, really? I had no faith in my own worth so no approval mattered. The difference now changes based on my mood; today it seems that the difference is in my self respect. In the place where I once would lower my eyes and agree and support now stands a strong force to be reckoned with and understood. The energy to defend that, often unspent, tossed aside apathetic. No time to argue or defend my choices when life is happening all around me.

A quality I've always had has grown tremendously this year: the urge to create and surround myself with creation. being critical of oneself without delusions of grandeur- this is important to me. creating is my way of perfecting myself- purging the evils and the doubts and the voices, nourishing my mind with its own capacity for beauty. Especially after working on the internet, going from blog to blog, tumblr to tumblr, people seeing and reposting photos and songs and tiny tiny quotes, filling hundreds of pages while managing to CREATE absolutely nothing. it boggles my mind. the desires to create and change and invent and perceive and represent myself accurately were (and still are) so tangible to me- i often feel them grow in the pit of my stomach, or when my head aches, or when i can't get out of bed. the art machine that is my body, when stagnant, gets rusty and achey and it creaks and moans. posting someone else's photo of mismatched converse will not ease this pain.

2010, i'm sure it was a big deal. many endless things ended. relationships died. my father, cousin, two friends- died. problems disappeared instead of being solved. many issues went without closure. i learned what was truly important and i learned that i'm allowed to be selfish. by becoming selfish and taking care of my own heart i became more generous and giving, i opened up to new people and experiences and i haven't stopped learning. i stepped into a spotlight and am no longer playing the supporting role in someone else's film. whatever was left in the dust is loved and cherished for being expendable.

2011, i'm sure it'll be a big deal. love will grow and flourish. we'll create so much. people will die. things will cease to exist, and we'll rearrange our lives around absence, never fill the void, but appreciate its necessity. it might be terrible, but i think it'll be great.

 these things you own, the clothes you wear,
the places where you rest your head,
how sadly spectacular how much of it,
after life, becomes trash.
when my father died i was told to
collect what i wanted of his things.
room by room in this home i filled my arms
as much as they could carry;
ideas heavy in my hands,
images lifted from the knees,
memories throwing out my back.
after life all that's left is a big beautiful house.



 bone white walls, corners of creaking leaves
under forgotten windows ajar,
windows whose bare panes
begrudgingly permit pathetic slivers of light
to limp across the forgotten floor.
what once held a lifetime of words
and pictures and collections
is now home to only the hooks that held them.
the absence induces a sob,
and from empty floor i look up to empty wall
and feel myself falling into the abyss
feeling for the first time
physical absence




mourning a future which will never achieve fruition
mourning the ignorant past
would effort prove a trustworthy agent of companionship, closure?
what knowledge may have saved this loss?
when you come to me in dreams you are not at peace.

i'm in an old fashioned elevator, wood panels, brass controls, manual door. i stand with my mother and some dark-haired cousin that i can't identify. we get out of the elevator on what feels like the wrong floor- a strange event is going on, a grand ballroom with dark blue wallpaper and silky white curtains hanging from the chandeliers. people with animal faces, exquisite ballgowns, pagan celebration.
i tongue my incisor and it shifts. we walk to a back hall, away from the action. i pull my tooth out and hold it in my hand. a bottom tooth begins to ache and i tongue it also. although things are happening, events unfolding, all around me, i pay more attention to the dismemberment of my mouth. i am aware that it's my cousin's birthday, that my grandmother is being disagreeable somehow, that i'm worried about doing something wrong. i keep spitting teeth into my hand and hiding them there between the flesh of my fingers, wondering who will notice.
i end up back in the elevator alone with one of the animal faced people. she knows about my teeth and demands to see them, asking, is there any blood? i say i don't think so. she sorts hungrily through the collection of teeth i've amassed, nodding approval, grunting, and putting some to her lips. she sees a spot of blood on one and screams in terror, tries to run for the elevator door. in an effort to keep her company i show her, look, i can rub off the blood with my finger. it's not the same, she cries, and disappears back into the crowded ballroom.
i begin to follow her, rubbing blood of a handful of teeth, but my grandmother intercepts me and says we are exactly where we should be. the other guests look at us apprehensively. it's time to give presents to my cousin and along the way i've decided that i don't care if i do something wrong, that i don't much like this family anyway, and when it's my turn to give a gift i spit a mouthful of teeth into my cousin's handbag, which is already full of sharp pins. i also throw in the fistful of teeth i've been carrying, just for good measure. the animal heads laugh and applaud. my grandmother tries to reach into the handbag to remove the teeth but the pins prick her and her hand comes away spotted and bloody. i can't tell if my cousin is laughing or crying, but i can't tell if she's really my cousin, so i turn away apathetic.

Down to sleep with screaming ears
The horns are sprouting strong
Third eye crawling,
Beckoned by the spirit of the song
Forces of creation so quickening this breath
Seeking out the odor and postponing death
Unclean but cleansed, no burden when
You hang about my neck
I sleep forever peaceful, marinating in my sweat.