put more couch on the fire

i was so cold last night i dream about the fruitless search for warmth. i built a fake fireplace and burned a couch in it.

also, i dreamt i had a brilliant idea for a novel, but in the pale cold morning light it melted away.

damn this cold. it saps not only my physical but also my creative energies.

picture it

lisa's put up some photos from the Mile High dinner. 'twas tasty. i still have flan in the fridge.

friday night rock

we played a show at Slim's with AC Newman. Slim's is an incredibly well-oiled machine where everything happens properly and on time. it's quite comforting, actually. there's nothing worse than going to a club and finding that there's no sound person, no one seems to know the set times, and the first band, told to go on at 9:30, don't start until 11, pushing back the headlining band to playing at one a.m., meaning that they play their last few songs as patrons are being hustled out. i hate that. Slim's is not like that.

AC Newman is Carl Newman, from the New Pornographers. i've always liked the NPs because of their verve and contrapuntal harmonies. his stuff last night exhibited much of the same qualities, but i'd say it was overall more deliberate, less of the bouncy energy of the NPs and more like - focused rock. anyway they were awesome.

when you play on a stage like that, where you have a sound mix person in the house and one who just takes care of your monitor mix, it's impossible not to feel confident and excited. when you can hear yourself and everything going on around you, crystal clear, it's relaxing. jesse said our vocals sounded so confident, so relaxed that night - because we knew we didn't need to strain to be heard. i had a little trouble with my guitar tone - maybe it was just me on stage but it sounded super bass-heavy - but i turned up the treble some and that seemed okay. i should really raise the amp next time, i think it makes a big difference.

also, i'm dreaming of a multi-instrumentalist. AC Newman had a melodica player (he played trumpet and stuff too).

thanks to eric for the name of that instrument. eric and i talked about music a little during the AC Newman set. i'm very impressed with the way Carl constructs melodies and harmonies - they are so distinctive, somewhat whimsical and yet solid. eric said he wants to have a multi-instrumentalist in his band, too.

lulu and robin were also there, a really nice surprise. that's the thing about being depressed, it turns you into a complete narcissist, and you forget that other people don't lead these static lives. robin's in town for Thanksgiving. duh! Thanksgiving! i forgot...

speaking of Thanksgiving, i attended a dinner at the Mile High. i made baked yams, which were just okay, and a flan, from souris's recipe, which was FLANTASTIC. seriously. even better the day after, for breakfast. after dinner jess and i took the stage and played a few acoustic songs... that was fun. two were covers, one an original that we've been working on. we had a couple others prepared, but we chickened out.

it's strange how days can be so good and so bad. sometimes it's awkward to go out in public because i feel as though i'm faking it. eric and i talked a little about the need for a persona on stage, someone else's skin to inhabit to free yourself from having to be yourself. sometimes i feel like i need that just to leave the house to get cigarettes.

by the way, i'm totally quitting at the end of this month. good luck to me. and i hope relatively happy holidays were had by all whom i love.

not you

honey, it's not you; it's me.

you are good for me. you are kind and sweet and understanding even in this storm of pain and confusion. it's me who's not good for me. i'm not good for anybody. poisonous, rotten, fatally flawed.

i need to break up with me. i suggest you do the same.

feeling emo

find your love through this emo matchmaking website.

one flaw: it's hard to see the faces on profile pictures, as many seem to favor long locks over the eyes, bending down to gaze at shoes or belly button...

the spinning bottle is kinda cute though.

in other news: i need a haircut. more importantly, a haircutress. any suggestions?

withered iris

iris chang shot herself.

we were waiting for our take out indian food when i, idly leafing through remaindered newspapers at the counter, saw the obituary.

it shocked me deeply. how? what happened? i assumed, an accident.

she killed herself, he said.

but -

i guess she was struggling with depression.

i'm not sure where he got that information, as it was nowhere mentioned in the lavish obituary. in fact her husband was quoted saying that she lived for her work, loved it. died for it, too?

it's so close, i said. death. that could be me.

iris chang was five years older than me, and i always identified with her, perhaps in the way a younger sibling might. respect and admiration mixed with envy and jealousy and created a sense of familiarity, of family. i saw her speak several times, talked to her afterwards about her work. that book, the Rape of Nanking, i wish *i'd* written, and in fact believed i could have written it better. ah, the arrogance of youth. but she seemed to have it all figured out. she had a career that had won her accolades (at which i, too, dissatisfied with my own graduate school ambitions, grumbled that she was less historian than simply journalist of the past), she had written a very important book to further east asian scholarship, she had a loving husband and, recently, a child. she had what i wanted, in two or three year's time; i saw in her a possible role model, a model for the trajectory of a satisfying life.

and now she's dead by her own hand.

how close it is, how close the curtain of death. one moment of weakness and - it terrifies me - i can almost see it there. lisa said once that she found comfort in its being so close - just there, right there on the other side. simply push the curtain and you're there. but i find it frightening because it is so easy. it is always there in front of me, my own shadow, my companionable spectre.

and i think in despair, if iris couldn't make it, how can i? if she couldn't choose life, after everything, if she couldn't even see that life was worth living to write books that changed the world, to raise a child, to hike in the mountains with the man you love, then how, how, how can i? how can i view my life as anything worth living?

i think what saves me, for now, is pure cowardice. but sometimes i wonder what will happen when i finally muster the courage to step past the curtain. will i do it? and if i don't, what will stop me?

a poetic thought

hearts, like hard drives, can crash.

i should perhaps read more poetry.

bloody critic

strange dreams last night. a film critic dictating a review to me suddenly becomes overcome with fear as bloodstains appear on his shirt. i try to find the source of the blood as he panics helplessly.

jess and i are in a little cafe, run by some punky kids. it's dirty and resembles a japanese noodle house. steamy, salty air. for some reason i become frothingly angry with jesse and storm out of the place. i don't know why.

cold, dark, impersonal hotel, very modern and sleek. i'm taking the back stairs. lonely, somewhat sinister mood. i dream of such hotels often.

yesterday morning as i was waking up i had an extended fantasy-dream, in the time of half-wakefulness right before you actually wake up. i pretended i was a tarot-card therapist to the stars. celebrities consulted me about their lives, and i used hand-painted custom tarot cards to begin the therapy session.

actually sounds kind of like a fun job.

sick

dear webernet,

my hard drive is sick. out of the blue it started making a whirring sound, then a loud beep, and then it shut itself off. it wouldn't turn back on and i panicked. i let it rest for a couple hours and tried again. it seemed fine. but when i tried to send an email, the clicking whirring noise started again and i watched helplessly as it shut off.

and today i am sick, too, in bed with a glass of water and tissues by my side. i've been watching movies. and eating pistachios. sometimes i crave salt when i am sick.

well i'd better go before my hard drive shuts off again. more later.

- jane

girl night again

wednesday night i made it out to girl night. i actually got dressed and even wore a little makeup. i don't know if it's the stress or what, but my skin is freaking out lately. i've got little incipient zits that don't quite blossom but hang on like a pox around my chin.

just five of us, but it was perfect. i think all of us have been feeling a bit under the weather, but things are starting to look up. that made me hopeful. we're all screwed up but we can make it work.

afterward lisa and i had a drink at the mile high. lisa's selling the business. it's too stressful for her, and she says she realizes she can't do it alone. it's best to run a club like that with a partner. it's best, maybe, to start any new venture with a partner. good partners are hard to find, however. a good partner who is more than someone you simply get along with, but someone who can challenge you and balance out your strengths and weaknesses and who can communicate clearly, someone whose style of work complements yours.

we talked about what she would do after the club is off her shoulders. maybe we could be image consultants. stylists. produce a cable-access makeover show. the leap from idea to practical application is the one that makes me balk. that leap seems so far, and so long.

seems to me like you'd have to fly to make that leap.

the subtle mystery of sexuality

me: boys are so easy to turn on. it's almost not fair.
him: yeah, we are. i mean, i'm like this old-fashioned vaccuum cleaner that has one switch, off and on. while you, you're like this fancy new vaccuum cleaner with no bag that has like eight levels of sucking on it.
me: ... you just compared my sexuality to a major household appliance.
him: yeah.
me: with eight levels of sucking.
him: ...
me: don't let anyone tell you you're not romantic, baby.
him: you're not going to blog about this, are you?
me: eight levels of sucking says i will.

fears large and small

an icy light lances through the window and i can hear the patter of rain on the roof. a cup of coffee keeps me warm but won't feed my soul. still, i think things are getting better.

tonight is girl night, after a long hiatus. i tried to write this morning in honor of it. i stared at the blank screen for a while, sometimes typing and then deleting. i have the urge to write, all the time these days, but my creative spark slumbers under the covers and i don't know how to wake it up.

it should be easy to write. tap a vein, let it flow. i dream of doing that. for inspiration i read. not novels, lately, but histories. simon schama. carlo ginzburg. t.j. clark. i like to lose myself in other times, other places, and by wandering back home, find my voice.

when i was in elementary school we were visited by a story-teller. she cast a spell on me with a Nordic tale of children with no shadows. i shivered at night thinking about it.

i am prone to fear. inexplicably, they seem to increase as i get older. i used to be afraid of the dark, of ghosts, of vampires, of all the natural enemies of humans and bright, clean living. now i am afraid of things that make no sense. phone calls from numbers i don't recognize. noises outside that i can't explain. balloons. champagne corks. the last two are a drag at parties. and i can't explain them. i used to blow up balloons carelessly, i've opened bottles of champagne with hardly a thought. now i have to literally leave the room if someone is about to uncork the bubbly. i also have to avoid touching or even being near balloons.

sometimes i really wonder, am i crazy? one night in Paris after smoking enough hash to get an elephant high i got home and went to the bathroom. as i washed my hands, the sound of running water in the sink transformed into a soft, whispery voice. it was telling me what to do. i withdrew my hands and listened. i was strangely calm about it. it was actually not a single voice, but several, whispering in unison, very rapidly. i wish i could remember what they said. my greatest fear is that i will hear those voices again, and that they will not leave me. and i'll finally have to give in to my insanity.

relativity

the speed of light is the same for all observers. this doesn't seem like relativity to me, but a constant in the universe that is somehow comforting. falling light wave-particles from a distant star travel at the same speed as the light from my face to the mirror and back. no matter how fast the star is hurtling away from me. i'll still see the light in the night sky, decades later.

and it will still see me, my face turned up to the sun's reflection in the moon.

flickering at the corner

the last couple of nights i've seen movement out of the corner of my eyes as i try to fall asleep. sometimes it looks like a cat slinking across the floor. sometimes, a small person - a child? - walking in front of the closet. a man, standing still. a bat, fluttering at the window.

this strange sense that there's another, unwelcome presence. it doesn't help me sleep.

is this it?

i was disheartened for most of yesterday, even though the election results were about what i'd expected. i'd still dared to hope.

not that kerry would have fixed everything. but at least having him in office would mean that people were voting for change. the idea that half the U.S. wants things to go on as they are is more depressing than i can say.

things are going to get worse. it's his last term now, and he'll aggressively pursue the mandate of the triumvirate (that's cheney, ashcroft, and rove) with no worries about public approval or re-election.

on the bright side, it's a great time to be an artist. there's a lot to be angry about. anger, discontent, desire for change fuels some of the best art, especially in music.

but i don't feel much like singing these days...