Saturday, December 19, 2009

If I were french

I would take long pauses in the middle of the conversation and just seem mysterious.
I would smoke cigarettes in long black jackets. I would eat cheese, pronounce wine correctly. I would wear little short skirts with black stockings and cut my hair short as I grow old. Wear a bizarre brooch or pair of earrings. 'She's so European.Oh no she's not zoning put she's just introspective'. I would talk loudly to my other french friends laugh boisterously and somehow this would be thought of as adorable. Thirty seconds later becoming stoic.
I would travel and be exotic yet above. I would be a cat person. I would have a melodic sing song name that would go up on the end. And inject melody in boring names like Tom or Stephen.
I am utterly american, I am not Bardot, I'm not Jean Seberg. I look like I was carved from white bread. My loud laugh is annoying and instead of searching uhms I slipin a yeah or like. I don't tan I pink. My legs short.I am exotic to Jewish boys who want to scare their mother. I am not mysterious nor was meant to be but sometimes I bum a cigarette in a long black coat and pretend.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

I want for her

I want for her to take things for granted. To wake to her alarm, sleep in on Sundays. Delight in burnt pancakes. Do laundry promptly. I want for her to have boyfriends grilled by my father on the front porch. I want for her to be annoyed yet love this grilling. I want for her to not need these boyfriends. To count her freckles, wear sunscreen, to laugh loudly in libraries, to believe she deserves to be in every room. She does. I want for her not to know hungry, or scared, or that shakey feeling of walking alone at night watching onesself. I want for her to love her forehead, hell love her fivehead, and hips, and go to the cobbler when her shoes wear. I want for her to meet Jong, Shakespeare, Jagger, Richards,McCartney, Lennon, Lady Day, Jim Henson, Redding,Hepburn, Stewart,Cukor, Mitchell, Taylor, and anyone else who makes her smile/think/laugh/sing/dance/challenge/excavate. I want for her to travel. To have no debt. Be good at something, know it. I want for her never to sit accross from someone, a candle in between and wish she were anywhere else. I want for her to eat cheese, wear jeans, floss, learn a foreign language, moisterize. Be an adequate speller. Wear ridiculous heels and sneakers in inappropriate places. I want for her to have a car, a house, a job, a plant, a dog that she does not force to wear clothing,health insurance. I want for her not to care about things. But still appreciate the artistry of a tailored coat or cupcake. I want for her never to feel dependent, never feel a disappointment to anyone, insufficient of funds, insufficient of anything. I want for her to trust, trust feelings, trust safety. trust that there's a reason, maybe not even get lost in the reason. Forget that, I want for her to trust her. I want for her not to write the same tapes over and over, play them back. I want for her to avoid men with accents. and perhaps those with tattoos, perhaps not those with tattoos. (Dependent on tattoo).And everyone has an accent, even she'll have an accent. I want her to not be ashamed of her accent One that will come out when she's drunk or exhausted...that strange 'a' sound. I want for her to buy a dress just because, buy flowers just because, buy a bottle of vodka just because. Wear her hair short, long, dark, light. Wear white. Go to Concerts, go to Italy,go on road trips without getting nauseous. To not be ridiculously corny, (say what she would write) more graceful,more here. I want for her to sing loudly at karaoke. To run. To not regret. To do do do. To do be do be do. To be. I want for her to partner if she sees fit, perhaps try a few fits on for size. I want her to give without being taken. I want for her to never want.

Friday, August 28, 2009

apathy and rain


I think the worst thing is not to feel. I wish I had a stronger feeling about this, but I don’t. I’m saying it apathetically, whatever. Which in itself is ironic or something. I drink 4 coffees a days so I wake, ambien to sleep. And despite the food I eat, pills I take, drinks drank, people I fuck, traffic I play in, I’m waiting to feel. I’m too tired to run, hand and feet numb Hands, two. I have two, thank you. Yeah I’m rhyming, so what? Even this this speaking there’s like a space, a space between my thoughts and words, not that I’m editing them, I’m not aware enough to edit I guess, not smart enough., no not smart enough I..whatever=There’s just space, like a delay. And maybe it’s the rain. And my lack of good wellies, or a ‘brolly’. English people say that’brolly’, brolly-englishpeople...english persons-and what do they call a phone a, a blower? Something. Anyway I’d like one. But I wouldn’t call it that because I’d sounds stupid, or screw ot, maybe I would. A fashionable umbrella. With clouds or the subway system, or wheat field by van gogh? If I had one I’d lose it. I used to buy a new one every time it rained, a ‘five dollar’ ‘five dollar’ umbrella on the street. But now, now I just get wet. And I don’t mind it really, have no feelings either way. The thing with getting wet, is you dry. It let’s up eventually.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Things that are not socially acceptable

-poking babies in the eye.

-dancing to other people’s cell phone rings

-answering honestly when someone asks you how you are

-putting vodka in juice boxes

-having ex’s meet current girlfriends to discuss how needs were and were not being met.

-discussing hair removal

-telling people that you don’t like their dog.

-lying down on a subway bench

-sleeping in your car

-saying ‘no we shouldn’t’ when people you haven’t seen in a while say ‘we should hang out soon’.

-admit that you actually like being single.

yelling 'walk!!' at dogs in handbags.

-saying congratulations when someone gets engaged, or good luck!

-laughing at a stupid name, ie. Kimee, and anything ending in an ‘I’

-saying 'i'm sorry' or 'oh god' to a pregnant woman.

-admit that you clean for the cleaning lady

-tell people that you liked them better when you first met.

-asking someone on the train if you can use their ipod

-public urination

-discussing public urination or any bathroom habits.

-asking to borrow beer from a neighbor, or anything other than sugar or a shovel

-sampling produce,

-punching professional sport or themepark mascots in the face.

-licking the bowl.

using children's playground equipment

-talking about sex, politics, or God at the top of your lungs.


Okay okay okay okay, whatever okay okay okay yes okay. I got it, yup got it, got it got it. Okay okay okay, love you, okay….okay…okay.. bye. What? No. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, it’s just I’m not in a place that’s conducive to talking to you. Conducive mom, conducive. A good place. For talking. No I’m fine. No no that’s not what I meant mentally I am in a good place. I mean physically. No I feel okay. No I’m not sick. I mean for talking.. on the phone. Its loud. I said it’s loud. It’s loud. You can’t hear me because it’s loud. Yes I can hear you. Yes I can hear you. Hello, hello, hello. Mom stop saying hello, I can hear you. I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you can’t hear me. No I’m not blaming you I’m just saying it’s not my fault. Mom can I call you back, can I call you back? Can I call you back? When? later. I don’t know. You need an exact time? Uhm like 2. Okay 2. Okay okay okay bye, okay. I love you.

Friday, July 10, 2009


for my bro.
I am trying to listen. Past the noise to your music. Listen harder listen harder listen harder hear less try less.past my heart beat , past my pulse, past my ideas of shoulds or coulds that I was convinced were a baseline. And sometimes I hear nothing, but the pendulum of my thoughts, the tick tick tick. And what do you sound like? cause I thought you'd be a trumpet thought you'd be a symphony thought you be an undeniable solo. But maybe you sing like the voice of a child. An angel bell, a bright ring hovering above the sound almost part but above and maybe I just got to listen harder.not to hear but to listen and forget the songs I know.‏ But I don't know what you sound like, and i'm afraid that I'll hear you, and afraid that I won't.

Saturday, June 13, 2009


I'm not going to tell people not to be sad. Because there's a lot to be sad about in this world. But I guess the trick, is how long we sit in it, and if we have a choice in that matter after all? Haven't figured that one out yet.

They say a dead body weighs the same as a living body. Takes up the same mass as a living body. Not to be morose, but scientifically, same matter. Fine I am morose. But these two things physically tangibly are the same. So what’s the difference? The soul, the want to live, faith, the what? Cause whatever it is it doesn’t weigh anything, yet it matters. Separates us from them. Cause there are days that I wish that I was dead. Not dead really, but just asleep, on a time out. Vacation from my body, from this. And I don’t think that makes me instable or unstable or anything, I don’t think there’s a single person in the world who hasn’t thought about that, for a moment at least. Even a second. You’re lying to yourself if you say you haven’t. And I’m fine with those thoughts, because they’re natural. They’re human. Doubt is human. But what I’m not fine with is feeling so weighed down. So weighed down in this mass that’s supposed to be the same. And I recognize that within me is infinite possibility and blah blah blah the potential that is within everyone and the universe and God whatever. I’m infinite I get it, but right now, I’m infinitely in a hole. And every day I have to tell myself to stay awake. To keep my eyes open. To listen. To not go to sleep. Cause how else am I going to feel that thing.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Grey or Gray

The other day I learned one of my best friends made a beautiful decision to live his life, today a rally was held in NYC to protect that. This is for him, others, and anyone else who assumed life would go a certain way or can't.
It’s a complicated situation. But most things are. Complicated. When I was a little girl I thought things were black and white. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Either you loved someone or you didn’t. And surely if you did love them they would love you back, all of you, accept all of you. Hug you in acceptance, just because you loved them. And there was high school and college, and love and marriage and children and milestone markers that people gave you cards for. And that was life. It was recitals and barbeques and summer vacations and baseball games, and boring dinner ‘parties’ in which no games were played. And that was a given, that was our legacy, what was expected, maybe the car or the vacation or the house of the kids would be different than you expected but it would happen it would be yours. And I wanted that. Never did I not want that. I still do.
When I was in college I used to hate my body for making those things difficult, making them seem impossible. Special. I used to pray, I used to pray all the time not to make me like everyone else or make it okay for me to be ‘like everyone else’ or stop feelings or change them but just to be able to experience, in whatever way God or whoever saw fit, just to be able to have me experience and maybe take for granted those things too.
And I know, I know no matter what is and is not legalized I’m not going to have the same taken for granted experience I’m not going to have the same life. But I want the boring dinner parties and the recitals and barbeques and high school graduations, and vacations and a yard. And I didn’t think I was going to have to fight to get them.

Saturday, April 11, 2009


Sometimes I used to go to St. Mary’s church in the Hague. When the junkies would come out, line their shiny objects on the ground. That’s where I went. When there was no service, it was empty. And I’d take my little dog with me. Put my little dog in my sweatshirt, tucked away in my sweatshirt. And I’d splash holy water on my face, and then splash holy water on my dogs face. And sit in the back, and think of home, or not think at all. Faith, faith is a tricky thing. I fought faith a lot, and people of ‘faith’ fought me. You just ever do so much stuff that you don’t know what you want to be forgiven for? Wrong is relative, cause you’re just trying to live, survive.
I went to catholic school growing up. I’m Irish-Catholic. First generation. My mom wanted me so badly to be an altarboy and I couldn’t cut it. All I had to do was just stand there. And sometimes I try really hard to remember the first thing. The first thing I did where it started. I don’t know maybe it was playing with myself or something. Lookin at men. Mouthed off to my parents. I don’t know. And if I could remember that first thing, if I could ask for forgiveness for that first thing, and gotten it, then maybe I wouldn’t have done everything else. Maybe I wouldn’t be here.
But sitting there in the back, 17 years old, with my little dog tucked in my shirt, dirty, just sitting there I belonged, I was forgiven. Cause people didn’t get in the way.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

It's not you it's me

So I haven't been monologuing as I've been writing in her headspace. See below.

Saturday, March 14, 2009


Becca, 24
Do you know what its like to be hungry? Like empty hungry. Hopeless hungry. Check clearing hungry. Three days. Three dollars. It’s an empty shakiness. And it doesn’t matter how you got here, or that you’re not the sort of person who gets here, cause there’s that physical fact. The hunger, the frustration in your stomach. So you dress up, and straighten your hair, and order water at the bar. And pretend. Bide your time. ‘I’m tired I should be getting home’ An hour before the subway stops. ‘Big day tomorrow’. The walk’s fine. I don’t want to be comfortable. I chose not to be comfortable. I had every opportunity, every opportunity. New clothes, mom’s car, ivy league. Never wanted for anything, I’m of able body, and able mind, and I chose this. I chose this. (This temporary artistry).
And I understand. I understand those that pretended with charge cards and mortgages, and empty homes. Because of the hunger.

Friday, February 20, 2009

The other woman

Sometimes things don't fling. (For some girls I'll never meet, and have been.)

Hi. Thanks for coming. Can I get you something? You want a coffee or something? I bet you drink coffee, you seem like you’d drink coffee. I drank a lot of coffee in college. You sure you don’t want a tea or something? Thanks.. for meeting me. Sorry I don’t mean to stare. And I’m staring. Nice weather today. It’s LA I guess it’s always nice weather. I’m not used to that. I like having the seasons, feeling things. If it’s sunny what do you have left to dream of? Snow? How is he? No don’t answer that. I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sure he’s happy. I’m sure you’re happy. Are you happy?
I don’t know you, and I’m not going to assume anything.. about you. Because my imagination’s been doing that for a while, Creating this empty-outline person. To fill in. This girl. Who’s simple, not in a stupid way. But less complicated. And I realized that’s not fair. That’s not fair. because you don’t know me, you didn’t even know I existed. I’m not even the past. I’m less than that. And I don’t pretend to know about whatever it is you’ve gone through. But you’re lucky. I think you’re lucky. I don’t know you, but I think you’re lucky. Because you get to do laundry and watch movies, and have fights, and be real. And you’ll have a beginning, middle and an end. Unless you uhm-you’re lucky. And I think you should know that.
And yeah he’s difficult, and childish and everything I never knew I wanted, and maybe he’s different. People change. Grow. I just need to- no I don’t need to know anything. I just need to tell you that right now, you’re lucky. And you should know that.

Timing’s a funny thing isn’t it.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Yes, you, you there I'm talking to you.

I know there are a few of you, reading this stuff. (You've told me drunkenly at parties). My cheap form of websiting as I don't have a camera man to shoot these things yet, nor can afford a url at the moment. So if you're so kind as to listen to these voices, and they make you think something, anything('Melissa has a lot of free time' 'God I've never seen the phrase 'I mean' used so much' 'I hate these people and your face', good, bad, indifferent thoughts...whatever) Give a shout back.

The talk

I am the daughter of a therapist, I have a friend who has never been. I can't tell who's better off."
>KATIE,29 First time in Therapy
I just talk I’m a talker. I talk.. too much. And I’m trying to not do that, to be a better listener. Talk less. But it’s hard you know because there’s that lull. And I know I know some people can sit with the lull, the silence but the truth is I can’t. And I’m being too honest, maybe. That’s my other thing, I guess it leads to the talking but I’m just too honest. My dad, my dada used to say ‘Our little Katie Kat doesn’t know a stranger’. That’s what he called me. My real names Katherine. But everyone calls me Katie, right, you know that. I’m trying to phase back to Katherine, at least professionally you know, but uhm. That’s a nice print. Flower print. Uhm supposed to be calming, well it is. Anyway he used to say I didn’t know a stranger cause I’d just talk to anyone, you know on family trips and stuff, and I don’t.

Am I talking too much? I mean I am paying you to listen right. I mean just not listen. I mean I’m sure you do more than listen I’m not saying you got degrees just to listen. Although I’m sure you are, seem like a good listener. But I’m supposed to be, honest with you. This isn’t like real world practice is it? Like a model for how I’m supposed to interact with others? It’s more for analyzing it. Ha I guess right? It’s called analysis. Sorry its just I’ve never paid to talk to anyone before, and now I feel guilty. And suddenly I’m just extremely self aware and feel narcissistic, which is ironic I guess. Ironic right? I don’t know I was a finance major. I’m a type A. You figured that out. Of course. So how long have you been doing this? Sorry, can you answer that? You don’t need to. I’m just trying to.. listen. See progress, five minutes in and progress, I told you I was a type A! This must be a humorless job. You can’t exactly laugh at your patients. Right? Even if what they say is funny you can’t laugh at them. I, I laugh a lot. I try to laugh at work. Accounts payable is not funny, nor fun really, but I try to laugh. Laughter is an integral part of physical wellness. It oxygenates your blood, thereby increases energy levels, relaxes your muscles and works out all your cardiovascular and respiratory systems. It’s paramount really. I’m just a happy person. Always have been. Sure things get you down but you just have to treat a crisis like an opportunity. Like this, this here, why I’m here, this is an opportunity. An opportunity for more knowledge of self and wellness. To learn. Because we’re broken open for a reason. I’m not broken, I’m broken open that’s different. I’m more exposed…so you can see the layers. Does that make sense to you?

Sunday, January 11, 2009



I don’t want to go to sleep. Because if I sleep I dream. And the dreams. The dreams. The thing about the dreams is eventually you have to wake up. And I don’t want to wake up. Because it’s just a reminder that this, this is it. And that, that is not. So I pace, and I drink these teas, you know. That sleepy time tea with the little bear-man in the nightcap. In his little nightgown, people don’t wear nightgowns anymore. I like nightgowns. And I count things. More to appease myself than anything else. And sometimes you know I start the dream when I’m awake, so maybe I remember like part of it. But it’s not fair, because it’s always better. And they’re mine, they’re my secret you know so I’m not going to tell you. It’d sound stupid anyway. But the waking up. The waking up’s the hardest part. Cause you can’t remember it all.
And people say be happy you know, be happy as if it’s a choice you know? And maybe it is maybe I’m just not choosing hard enough, trying hard enough. My mom. My mom used to say smile and the joy will follow. What else did she say? Something stupid uhm ‘Safety doesn’t happen by accident’. And ‘ I could care less’ which is wrong because it meant she actually cared. She did. Or pretended to. She wore turtlenecks, wear’s turtlenecks my mom. She’s very chipper, perky. Sweet. I wish I was more sweet. I mean she’s not dumb. She seems dumb but she’s not. She’s just southern. And we don’t believe in medication, my family. They don’t. We believe in prayer. ‘The lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped’. And that’s fine I just think the Lord made Zoloft. He made this. And I wasn’t raised Christian scientist or anything, it’s just it’s just you dealt with your problems. Well you ignored them. You pretended to be happy until you were. Simple as that. God my head hurts. I don’t drink enough water. I don’t do a lot of things, enough.
Sorry I didn’t mean to yawn. No I’m fine. Thanks. Thanks for sitting up with me. You’re exhausted aren’t you? No go to sleep I’ll be fine, seriously. It’s sweet of you really. Bless your heart. Ooh that’s another one she used to say. I had this English teacher in high school that used to just say ‘bless’ when someone sneezed, and I hated it. It was like just the verb. Like who was doing the blessing? was she? I don’t know it just seemed pretentious. Please go to sleep. Really , I’m fine. Will be fine. I mean I’m here.
It’s funny when I was little, real little I never used to dream. Isn’t that when you’re supposed to, you know dream, have childhood dreams? All that. But if I did I never remembered them. I just slept straight through. Crashed. I don’t remember exactly, when they started. Maybe it was when I needed them. I don’t know. High school or something. Is that strange though? Do you remember yours? And I don’t have nightmares neither, those are when I wake up. When I wake up the nightmares begin.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The Perfect Day

I often day dream about Sunday mornings. Mine are far more selfish than this.
The perfect day involves a morning run by a river. A good paced run past West Village Streets. Which is ironic as I don’t run, but would like to learn. Then return to a three story brownstone, I own. The perfect day is wholewheat pancakes with a side of NPR or dancing to The Supremes with a curly haired toddler with blues and a man with ones that match mine. New York Times read in between laughter. The perfect day is no makeup, maybe mascara, burtsbees. The perfect day is farmer’s markets and cobblestones., and tailored coats. Perhaps a golden retriever. No, a Lab. No puggles, definitely no Puggles. Trees. Grass. And parkbenches and both toddler and dog fascinated by birds and street music. Bubbles maybe. Honeycrisp apples. Little roses. Cider. God forbid a muffin. Muffin crumbs to pidgeons. Full family on the swings. Walk home. Stop. Coffee. Little legs get tired. Carried. Alternating He laughs as she questions, inherited. I smile. Home. Tuck in. Nap. Lil roses in- vase mom bought, in kitchen. The only one we haven't broken. Drawing on fridge underneath a copy of ‘this is just to say’. Which they both agree is corny. Now. Both on couch, toes touch. The perfect day is feeling better just because you are in the same room. Feeling safe/loved/needed/ wanted but not thinking this. We divide paper sections, read, then switch. Both forgetting glasses. Toes touch. Bodies squished. Need new couch. Need another day off. But not thinking about these things. The perfect day is silence and words and feet that smell rank sometimes, and laughter due to getting pushed off the couch. Pillow smack getting back on the couch. Forgetting we’re the adults. Are we? Shit. The perfect day is Casablanca on AMC followed by Annie Hall or Manhattan or maybe even Shawshank. The perfect day is knowing the words to all the songs on the radio. But we never listen to the radio anymore and know most of the words to the songs on his ipod. But he’s obsessive about music so perhaps that’s not true.
Okay. We know all the words to those songs written before 1990. 93. Nap time over. Damn. Kid, darn. The perfect day is colored pencils and crayons and suns with smiley faces inside, although they are indeed unrealistic. The perfect day is take out, sitting on a floor, eating thai or Indian. Good thai or Indian. Without gas. The perfect day is a phone call with a sing song voice on the other end. The perfect day is baths. Stories. Tuck in. Silence. The perfect day is a good book. Read. Excavated. With cup of tea in hand. Perhaps 2 cups, glass of wine. White. Time stops. Pen. Words. The perfect day is hands holding, dancing, searching. Then a familiar kiss, followed by good sex. Good sleep. Good sex again. Better sleep.
This isn’t what I thought perfect would be, she thinks.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

I want to see music

My greatest two regrets are quitting the alto saxophone in 4th grade, and not really learning to play the guitar my dad bought me. Growing up I had an imaginary band called 'Running on Empty'. Music and those who make it, amaze me.

JEREMY, 28. Stoned.
I want to write a song man. Like a song. A song is like the perfect art form. Like a story spliced with math, like a mental auditory dream. Auditory right, hearing auditory. Like pulmonary like unconscious/subconscious whatever. It’s like poetry but cool. I don’t know, it’s more open. It’s like you can say stupid shit as long as it’s put to music. I mean you can say things that sound stupid at first but really aren’t, they’re like deep. Multifasceted. So much more is just permissible. I mean I admire that. . The skill. How do we not run out of notes, note combinations. I mean I guess I don’t run out of word combination but I haven’t been talking since like the dawn of time. It’s a craft right. Like to assemble a three minute escape. Like a journey. Three minutes and you have to take someone somewhere else, to your soul in three minutes, okay sometimes 2:30 , 3:15. And who knows what they get or how they get it, or what they do while they get it. But there’s like precision to it. and art and damn man. I don’t know, talking about music is like writing about sex, or painting about food. I could tell you who gets me off or why I think they do, but until you hear it- I should just stop you know. But shit. I don’t want to be a rockstar, I just want to write one good song. Hell it doesn’t even have to be a good song.