Eight Page Essay

writing things down makes them real

I've been so sad lately, so stressed and miserable. I don't want to forget that in the middle of this, some things have been fantastically good.

One of my students told me that I made her feel valued, made her feel like her ideas were important.

One of my classmates, in a class I've always felt unqualified for, told me that she admired my comments and criticism.

And maybe things are over with Satanist Dan and I just don't know it yet. Maybe in January I'll know. I'll be sad. I'll pine over him, then vilify him, then, hopefully, think about other things.

But I want to remember him singing and dancing The Electric Company in my bedroom. I want to remember grocery shopping at midnight for biscuits & gravy, beer, and ice cream. I want to remember him accidentally kicking a hole in his living room wall, and I want to remember us laughing about it. There's a lot of laughing I want to remember.

I'm not trying to make it more than it was. But if it's over I'd like to remember that it was fun while it lasted. And that's a good thing. I need to think about good things.

The Message Leaving and Waiting

Hey it's me. Call me when you get this, I'd like to talk to you.

Job title and description

If the deal had always been that I have this guy I like who I see every once and a while, almost like a long-distance boyfriend but the distance is his busy schedule rather than miles, I think I would be fine with it. I was willing to do something like that with Other Mike. If I didn't expect to see Satanist Dan on a weekly basis, because I knew I couldn't, would I mind? Is the problem here that he's got the wrong job title and if I just re-name who he is and what this is, I'll be happy?

But if this had been the situation from the beginning, I think I would feel very differently about him. I wouldn't have had the chance to develop an emotional attachment. I might think, wistfully, what if I could see him more, I bet we'd be great together, but it's a very different kind of wish.

There seem to be three possible outcomes. The first, and best, would be Satanist Dan acquiring more free time (and spending some of it with me). But that isn't under my control, and if it isn't an option, there are two other outcomes. I can have a boy I chat with sometimes, and might see once or twice in the next few months, or I can have an ex-boyfriend. And I keep thinking that something is better than nothing, but I'm not sure that's true. I'm not sure I can go back to thinking of him as an occasional fling. And if I can't think of him that way I don't think I can be happy treating him that way.

I know that I need to ask him. I need to know if this situation will change. If it's a matter of waiting, I can manage. Not patiently, but I'd get through it. If it isn't a matter of waiting, if this is How Things Are Now, then I should probably leave. And I don't want to leave. So I'm afraid to ask him about it because I'm afraid it's going to mean breaking up.

But I think I've reached the tipping point. I am starting to think, should I text him now with a message saying Call me when you get this or should I wait until tomorrow morning when he will likely be home with his kids? Having a conversation during a break at work is less than ideal. But I worry that if I wait I'll lose my nerve.

I guess it needs a little more work

familiar patterns

Satanist Dan got a second job about two weeks ago which means he's working all the time, and getting three hours of sleep a night, and I never get to see him. I gripe a lot, to my friends, to Twitter, I rant in my head. I mean, what's the point of having a boyfriend if I never get to see him? And that thought is sometimes followed by Maybe I should get a new boyfriend. But I don't want a new boyfriend. I like the one I've got. He isn't just the role he plays and he isn't interchangeable. He used to be. When he was Boy 2, any time I might spend with him could have just as easily been switched with Boy 1 or 3, and I might have been more excited about 3. But then he got a name, albeit a joking one, and I appear to have acquired feelings, albeit not-very-serious ones. And I joke about it, and I put on an air of oh yeah whatever, but I really do miss him.

This makes all kinds of alarms go off in my head. I can't have feelings and stuff for him! That's what happens in a REAL relationship. And that's NOT what this is! I feel like, despite all my protests, I keep falling into familiar patterns. I wasn't going to have a boyfriend at all. I was going to "date," in non-committal, non-exclusive kind of ways. That didn't last. I wouldn't call us committed, but we are exclusive. And now here I am, missing, not my boyfriend, but Dan. I like him. I care about him. He makes me happy. But when I look at it, I don't think I'm really going overboard. It's not particularly clingy to want to see him once or twice a week. I'm not considering making changes or plans to stay with him. I think it bothers me, not because I worry that I care too much or am taking this too far, but that it is one further step towards caring too much and taking it too far. I feel like those D.A.R.E. people warning against marijuana and tobacco as "gateway drugs." Is this affection I have a gateway into something more dangerous?

here and there

Like every other blog I write, this one is about change. In this case, it's about changing location, about going to Ohio for a week and coming back. I can't disassociate my life from the places it happens in, and so when I leave those places, I leave everything else associated with them. In the week I spent with Fenna, I had no other obligations, no other friends, nothing but what was in front of me. And that was amazing. But once I open my apartment door again, and what is in front of me is this Iowa, again, it becomes everything. All I see is all there is. The rest feels like someone else's memory.

thank you

This morning I got a package in the mail. It was a birthday present. I don't think I've ever gotten a birthday present in November (my birthday is in September), but it's wonderful: so much more surprising and exciting. I got a gorgeous hank of baby camel/silk fiber dyed a sort of beige-brown-rusty red-pink kind of color (trust me, it looks better than it sounds) and it's soft and fluffy and shiny and I had admired it in the shop in August while I was buying knitting needles with my 12 year old cousin, and he remembered and thought "Angie would like that for her birthday," and here it is. And the fact that he noticed and remembered feels like the sweetest thing in the whole world.

This afternoon, I added another place to the list of Places I Have Cried in Public. I was knitting at Home Ec. Workshop, and talking about how I was avoiding doing the work I needed to do, and Alisa asked me what it was I was stressed about. And just the thought of listing out what I needed to do left me in tears, because I am having a difficult time accepting this whole growing up thing I have to do, and I respond to stress by crying in inappropriate situations. And she listened and talked me through it and offered to help me with some of the things I need to do.

And I am thinking about how many people have been listening, and talking me through it, and being there when my meds aren't working, and sending me virtual hugs when I'm feeling isolated, and inviting me to communal work sessions in the Art Box so that getting work done doesn't feel so isolating. It amazes me, the support I have, even from people I don't know, who read my twitter posts and ask if I'm okay. I think I am even more amazed, though, of the support I get from people who do know me, who get the unfiltered versions of my panic attacks, who get every new shred of evidence I am analyzing while I decide if I should call Satanist Dan on Tuesday or Wednesday because I spend a lot of time thinking about things like that, and they're still here, part of my life, and supporting me through it.

OH MY GOD IT'S LIVE (I think)

(click image for link)

(continued)

So I'm staying home by myself, and I feel lousy about it because I was holding tonight in front of me for days as my reward for being good, and it was going to help me get through the work I have to do tomorrow. I feel like I am budgeting my mental and emotional well-being like a physical resource: having fun Tuesday night and Wednesday morning to store up energy so Wednesday afternoon I can spend it on stressful, but necessary, work.

It's like, when people talk about losing weight, the first thing I tell them, is to find a way to be happy first. If it takes all you have to get through your day, there's nothing left to do anything else difficult, like refusing yourself ice cream when you get home. I measure out indulgences so that I have the willpower to do what I need to get done later.

When I started to write this, I was going to say something like:

I'm feeling lousy tonight and I can try to concentrate on being rational. I can give myself the little fixes that will keep me feeling okay, a little melancholy, but not terrible. Or I can just give in and indulge myself in self pity and let it all out and bawl myself to sleep. I kind of think I might be better at the end of it if I just let myself be as miserable as I feel like, and it would get it out of my system or something. Or just that, if neither option is particuarly good, might as well pick the easier one. I almost want to feel sorry for myself.

But then I started writing and got distracted and forgot.

stupid whiny stuff

Good things happened today. I hung out with my friends. I finished my awesome skirt. I hung out with friends. I passed my apartment inspection. I had a nice talk on the phone. Good things happened yesterday. I helped a student. I finished my apartment. I had root beer floats and hung out with friends and got work done and conquered my Dreamweaver issues. As far as I can remember, good things happened the day before that, and the day before that. So why am I miserable?

You Are Special

And because you're special, I'm posting another sneak peak of new work! No one else gets to see it yet but YOU.

Why I'm Not A Demon-Fighting, Sword-Slinging, Heroine on a Magical Horse

This is meant to be told aloud, so I kept a lot of verbal static and grammatical awkwardness. There are some tense issues as well, that I may iron out later. To be told at the next MO+# event (theme: embarrassment), then I'll probably radio-ize it:

Okay, so I like kids’ stuff. No surprise to any of you. I like things that come in Fischer Price colors. I like fairy tales. I walk into a Claire’s Boutique and I would wear 90% of the stuff they sell, and not to prove how totally ironic and hip I am, but because I genuinely like sparkly pink objects. I’m 30 years old and I haven’t yet started to refer to myself with the word woman. I mean, I acknowledge that, technically, it’s true. I just don’t really believe it. The word makes me kind of uncomfortable.

This isn’t a new thing. I’ve always been kind of reluctant to grow up. I don’t really like moving from one part of life to another. This story takes place during one of those moving-from-one-part-of-life-to-another times, in the summer between sixth and seventh grade:

When I was growing up, I spent all my summers taking classes. I was an extra-curricular over-achiever. I played the violin, then I played the guitar, then I played the piano and took voice lessons. I took theater classes and calligraphy classes and writing classes and paper making classes and computer classes and drawing classes and dance classes and even a chess class. My parents even got me to do gymnastics and soccer, although those didn’t last very long. I think it was a combination of my mother making up for all the things she didn’t get to do as a kid, and a good way of getting me out of her way after school and during the summer.

This summer, besides the usual arty kind of stuff, I also signed up for a fencing class. This was kind of an odd choice for me, because it was a sport, sort of, and required physical activity and coordination, which I suck at. But it was fencing. I was going to learn how to use a sword.

See, the thing is, I was a nerdy, socially awkward kid. (I like to use the past tense there, as if I wasn’t still nerdy and socially awkward.) Anyway, like every other nerdy, socially awkward kid, I read a lot. I read a lot of fantasy books. The kinds with swords and people saying m’lady, and ideally the kind with magical horses that formed special, magical bonds with their riders. I’m not sure if anyone here is familiar with Mercedes Lackey or Anne McCaffery? That’s kind of the thing I read. So I thought that learning to fence would be the coolest damn thing in the world. After learning how to use a sword, I would be, like, a step away from having a horse companion to kick ass with.

So I show up to the first day of class, and, like every other first day of class, we meet the teacher and introduce ourselves, and we go over what we were going to learn. The teacher tells us a little bit about the sport of fencing, different styles, and goes over the equipment we’d be using to poke at each other with swords, and the equipment we’d be wearing so no one got injured while we’re hitting each other with swords. There were the white suits and masks that I’d seen on TV. There were metal plates that went inside the suits. There were also metal bowls that I was supposed to put inside my bra. They looked kind of like the things that she-ra wears, except it wasn’t a cartoon, and I was supposed to wear them!

The problem was, I didn’t wear a bra. I was not early bloomer. To be fair, I wasn’t a late bloomer, either. What I was, was a very late acknowledger. I got boobs at the same time as everyone else, but I completely ignored their existence. Acknowledging them would involve buying, you know, holders for them, which would require going shopping with my mother, who would probably use the word brassiere, and hearing my mother use the word brassiere was something I was definitely not prepared for. I was willing to put it off as long as possible, and I would have been perfectly happy if “as long as possible” was actually “forever.”

So here I am, bra-less in fencing class where, apparently, I need a bra. I have three choices. I could go bra shopping with my mother. I could tell the teacher, when he handed out the white outfits, that I didn’t wear a bra, and wouldn’t need the whole she-ra bit. Or I could quit fencing. So, obviously, I quit fencing.

And so if you’re ever wondering why I’m not a demon-fighting, sword-swinging, heroine on a magical horse, that’s why. I was too embarrassed to buy a bra.

Jealousy Again

A little while ago I decided that the default definition of boyfriend/girlfriend is a monogamous one. While there are plenty of people in poly-type relationships, I think that unless it is actually discussed at some point, I can't expect anyone to assume that I want one. Therefore, when I asked Satanist Dan to be my boyfriend, I was changing it from a de facto monogamous relationship to a real one. I didn't think about this at the time, but I am not unhappy with the realization. I was heading in that direction anyway.

So when Fenna tells Bryan that he should come visit while I'm there because one of us will make out with him, I said I wasn't available for making out. It felt really weird to say. And then it felt weird that it felt weird. So weird!

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I was really enjoying the lack of jealousy that came with the flings I was having. Back when Satanist Dan was Boy 2, he could have been sleeping around and my only concern was that he was doing it safely. After all, I was. I was kind of proud of myself for having the emotional maturity to be rational about it, because I think in the past I would have jealously wanted a double standard. So now I'm back thinking that I want Satanist Dan all to myself, and it feels a little like a step backwards into irrationality. Because I know that making out with Bryan wouldn't mean anything, or change anything. But when I think about Dan doing the same thing, I don't know how I feel, but I don't quite like it.

sneak peak

it isn't even on flickr yet! This, folks, is the interwebs premier!

For those of you in the Iowa City area, this, along with 7 other fun-filled images, will be on display in Studio Arts until 7pm Thursday.

I figured I should post something pink before going back to my regularly scheduled whining.

He said the L word

and not in reference to Showtime. It was a love you, bye! kind of thing. There was no looking into eyes, no solemn profession of feelings. I am sure that it shouldn't be taken literally. On the other hand, I am slightly less worried about driving him away.

(I considered only posting this on a flickr "friends and family" setting out of some new paranoia regarding it being read by the subject. But then again, if he makes it to my blog, will it really matter that this entry isn't visible? There are so many...)

Status Update

Not changing Facebook status, which feels too stuffy and official. But I think that changing my dating site profile is appropriate about now.

objectively

This weekend I wrote two artist's statements
put together my CV
applied for a show
finished spinning Kenda's commission
did a little swing dancing
got drunk with Satanist Dan
had dinner with Kendra*
made a new friend


That really is something. Objectively, I have no reason to complain, do I? Must work on that not-complaining bit.



*not a typo, I know a Kendra and a Kenda. This is going to get me in trouble. I will get it wrong all the time. Like Alisa and Alyssa.

Dinner plans make statement writing fun

(Not that I wrote this during dinner, but that knowing I was going to have fun later made it easier to sit down and get something done.)

Midway

Nothing says fun like a midway. Everything comes in candy colors, bright, shining, blinking, glowing, popping, chirping, everyone wins! Even the carnies, dried and brown and tired, they push and prod shy teenagers towards each other like smoke-stained Cupids. Why don’t you win that pretty girl a rose? How can you help but smile? Laugh? Spin and shriek on the rides, get your hands and face sticky with funnel cake and giant hot dogs, win your girl a prize?

And yet, there are moments when a clearing opens up in the crowd, and for a minute I see a woman sitting on a child’s wagon, alone on empty pavement. Another moment later, and she is lost as the crowd fills the space again. That is what I am looking for: the moments when the spell is broken, and all the cotton candy and inflatable dolphins can’t stop her feet from aching, can’t keep the boredom from a child’s face as he waits for his dad to return, can’t cheer up a toddler as he screams on the carousel.

The people in these photos have stopped to wait, stopped to think, stopped to rest. In a way, they have left the midway. They stand still while it moves along without them. In the midst of the people and the rides and the games, they have found quiet.

(Of course, the one I have left to do is the one I need most to have done. Still, it's nice to know that there's only one left.)

Things they want

1. Cover letter - part done, not finished
2. CV - ready
3. Portfolio of work - ready
4. Portfolio of student work - need to go through a zillion CDs
5. Statement of teaching philosophy - see cover letter


Also need to finish:

6. Statements for State Fair & Natural History projects. (Both partly done.)
7. Grade assignment #3 (due Thursday!)

Today I worked on 1 and 2, so far. (Also wrote terrible, inadequate, "treatment" for radio essay.)

Three new posts in November, and it's not even noon yet

These melodramatic posts are actually making me feel a little optimistic. Because that's all they are. I'm done with them. They're only a record of what I needed to get out of my head. Once upon a time I would have stayed in those thoughts. In the time before that, I would have called SD, crying, to tell him those things. I would have sent bitter, passive-aggressive, messages.

I'm going to go to the gym. I'm going to get some work done. I'll probably be feeling a little down tonight, but not badly. I'll probably write it down. I'll get over it.

What I might say, if we ever talked about stuff like this

I am always excited to see you. I am always happy around you. If I stay over Sunday night, I glow for half the day on Monday. You are sweet, and fun, and crazy. Like everything else that makes me happy, I want to see you, hear from you, all the time. I am trying so hard to be good, to do this right. I don't want to scare you away. I know this isn't anything serious. I know you're just having fun. I mean, that was kind of the point. That was what I was looking for, I'm just not very good at it.

morning

I feel like the sorriest person in the entire world. I am sad and hurt and angry at myself. I'm awake at 7:20 am, after having spent an hour not believing that I was awake at 6:20 am. That's actually been going on for a few days now, I don't know why. I'm sure I'll be back in bed by 9 am, trying to fashion some semblance of a normal sleep pattern.

I know I am blowing this all out of proportion. It's totally not a big deal. And it's entirely my fault. I could have done things differently, or I could have responded reasonably to what I did do.

Sara did call, and she called at 10:30! Why didn't I hear it? My phone wakes me up even in another room, I should have heard it. I would have gone out. I would have run into Andrew and Dan. I wouldn't have minded that Dan didn't call. I wouldn't have turned into this stupid ball of self pity.

I never, ever, want to be that girl again. The girl who's sad and hurt and angry because her boyfriend went out and didn't call her, who starts imagining him picking up someone else for the night. The girl who feels like she has no friends because she spent a Saturday night home alone.

The thing is, it was a misunderstanding. And as I sit here, whining and complaining about being sad and stupid, the hurt is fading. A week ago I didn't care if my boyfriend saw other people, hell, a week ago he wasn't my boyfriend. I don't know if I really care now, or if I was just finding ways to make myself miserable.

I don't even know if I want to post this. Now that I've said it, it feels so much more distant. So ridiculous. Embarrassing. This isn't how I feel, this is some temporary glitch, like being awake at 6 am on a Sunday. Time to go back to bed, maybe start the day over again in a few hours.

Good night.

I'm feeling better already.

Submission record, part II

This may be the cheesiest statement I've ever written. I feel kind of dirty. But here it is:

Artist's Statement: Flood

I grew up thirty minutes away from the ocean. It dominated the landscape. Cardinal directions translated into towards the ocean, or away from it. South meant that the ocean was to my right. When I left the coast for the first time, to move to Iowa, directions no longer made sense to me. What good was East or West, without an ocean for reference? When I was surrounded by thousands of miles of land? There wasn’t a complete lack of water in my new home. We had rivers and lakes. They kept, mostly, out of the way.

Then came the flood. The land gave way to those little, mild-mannered, rivers and lakes that I had dismissed so easily. Towards the river, or away from it meant the difference between destroyed homes and businesses, and safe land. My apartment on the hill became beachfront property. Even after the river returned to its former size, and water relinquished the town, I remained aware of it. Before the flood, I lived in the absence of water. After the flood, it was everywhere I looked. Playgrounds and shops, pastures and cornfields, they were all covered by my memory of water.

In these images, I am re-submerging the landscape by submerging the camera in a bag of water. I give my remembered water a literal form, and allow it to shape the landscape around me.

Sent to http://visualarts.emory.edu/events/prospectus.html for the Picturing Home juried exhibiton at Emery University.

deadline: Nov 3
notifications: Nov 9

in progress: artists statement

Nothing says fun like a midway. Everything comes in candy colors, bright, shining, blinking, glowing, popping, chirping, everyone wins! Even the carnies, dried and brown and tired, they push and prod shy teenagers towards each other like smoke-stained Cupids. Why don’t you win that pretty girl a rose? How can you help but smile? Laugh? Spin and shriek on the rides, get your hands and face sticky with funnel cake and giant hot dogs, win your girl a prize?

My life as a 15-year old.

I said So I was wondering, and he said Yes? What are you wondering? And he pulled away to arms length and grinned at me and I probably blushed. I always blush. I tried to pull him back so I could hide my face in his sweatshirt.

I was wondering if you maybe wanted to be my boyfriend, I said, and he laughed and said Okay. I can pass you notes in class.

And the thing is, I have no idea what I asked for. I have no idea what it means. I don't think he does, either. But I guess I have a boyfriend now.

notes for essay #2

Early sketches, working their way (hopefully) into a experimental sound essay:

Edited 10.27.2009

The spinning wheel is a very simple machine. There are two pedals, which drive the main wheel, which is connected via a looped plastic cord to a smaller wheel, which spins the bobbin. I hold the loose fiber in my fingers and work the pedals with my feet, and the fiber twists up. When I release, the fiber gets pulled in and wound onto the bobbin. Hold and release, hold and release. This time, I am spinning a blend of wool and silk, dyed the kind of green that gets sold with the names seafoam or moss. It is a dull, quiet color.

Wool is such a broad term. It could mean anything. There are the English sheep, with English names: Border Leicester, Derbyshire Gritstone, BFL, which stands for Bluefaced Leicester. Their coats are long and tough, easy to spin but rough on the skin and better suited for coats or rugs. Most American sheep, like everything else here, have roots elsewhere, but some are uniquely American: the Navajo Churro which is coarse and scratchy. Jacob sheep, which can have as many as six horns curling alongside their faces, and the unfortunately named CVM, which stands for California Variegated Mutant. The wool I am spinning now is Merino, from Australia. It is fine and soft. Lofty, but with a tendency to pill when worn.

Silk is a contradiction. It is smooth to the touch. It slides easily through my fingers. But it clings to itself and resists the spinning. It doesn’t want to pull apart. Insects, of course, already know this, but I had to learn myself.

As I hold the wool and silk in my hands, I pull a few strands out, stretching the fiber long and thin until it is almost insubstantial, like pencil strokes. Then the twist from the wheel travels up, and the line of the pencil is inked in, solid and strong. It has acquired substance and meaning.

I will knit a lace shawl with this yarn.

***

I am spinning a blend of cashmere and silk. The cashmere comes from an angora goat, not to be confused with angora, which comes from angora rabbits. Silk is a common material to mix in with other fibers. It adds sheen to otherwise quiet fibers. Cashmere, when blended with silk, becomes more affordable. Wool, when blended with silk, becomes less affordable.

Ranting to random strangers on the internet

'cause I'm awesome like that.












I guess it's technically answering a personal ad. So it goes with the rest.

Looking for Love: Final edit

Final version.  I swear.

.

I am okay tonight. It feels good to say.

this space intentionally left blank

I don't know what to do. I am not okay. I am very quickly loosing functionality. I can't afford to lose functionality. I have an appointment with my shrink in two weeks, and I can't get in to see her any earlier than that. I was thinking of taking two pills a day until then, but my pills are 300mg each, and the maximum daily dose is 450. I also can't cut them in half; they're extended release.

I can't find any mention of ill effects from combining depo and wellbutrin. I don't even know for sure that it is the depo, but it seems like too strange a coincidence to be something else.

Exercise helps, a little, for a little while. Talking helps, but it takes a lot of effort and I have a hard time handling social situations for long. I feel like I should stop being dependent on other people to be happy. I feel like I should learn to manage by myself, and stop self-medicating with my cell phone. But I spent all of last night going from one person to another, saying please just talk to me for a while I can't be alone, until I fell asleep. I hate doing that. I hate feeling needy and clingy. I hate that I called Dan. I'm not his girlfriend, and the good thing about not having a girlfriend is you don't get your girlfriend calling all the time with her problems. But I'll do it again.

A Glitch in the System

I can't stand spending time by myself these days. I stare at my phone. I refresh twitter, facebook, flickr. I even refresh gmail even though it automatically updates by itself.

fig 2.5

I was feeling a little leery of posting illustrations of people mentioned (over and over) in my blog. But Mike said it's okay so I guess it isn't so bad. This is Satanist Dan. I like him!

I am trying to improve my portraits. I need much more practice.

4 1/2 weeks

and I think the crush is fading, finally, although this time it leaves some affection and attraction in its wake. Perhaps I will even find balance this time, between mad obsession and a cold shoulder.

notes for self: submission record

Applied for online:

Rogue Space Chelsea Juried show www.chelseagalleryspace.com (Natural history)

The Center for Fine Art Photography, Fort Collins CO www.c4fap.org
*Elements of Water (underwater photos)
*New Visions (self portraits)

Mpls Photo Center, Minneapolis, MN http://www.mplsphotocenter.com/exhibits/callforentries
(state fair)

Prepped and ready to mail:

Center Gallery, Wichita KS www.centergalleryonline.com (state fair)

Project Basho, Philadelphia PA http://onward.projectbasho.org/ (natural history)

Good news and a dead otter

Maybe it was just my taking my meds yesterday and the day before. Maybe I just needed time to sort out myself with the depo. Maybe it was just a temporary glitch, but I appear to be running normally again. In celebration of not being fucked up, I present you with a pretty picture:

to fill (apologies to Lorrie Moore)

I feel love and affection in the traditional way: expanding the spaces in my chest. Filled to burst, and all that. But desire, fear, and sadness begin in my belly. They pull in, instead of pushing out. They create space. No wonder I self medicate with food. It isn't what I want, but it goes to the right place. It fills something.

theories

I'm sad. Not particularly right now, it's covered up, but I can feel it. As soon as my surface emotion fades, as soon as I am not thinking about anything in particular, underneath is sad. It doesn't come from anything, it isn't directed at anything, it just sits like fog in my belly. It feels like I'm off my meds.

I have a couple possible explanations:

1. I may very well be off my meds. I am sure I took them this morning, and I am 95% sure I took them yesterday. But the day before? And the day before that? I am not so sure. It is entirely possible that I have forgotten them nearly every day for the last week, maybe two. There aren't any immediate and debilitating side effects of forgetting, like there were with the Effexor, so I don't always notice.

2. I started Depo Provera about a week ago. It changes my hormones, which is good for not getting knocked up, but changes in hormones sometimes result in changes in mood. Perhaps I now need a different dose to account for the differences in chemistry.

3. This feels like "off medication" sad, as opposed to "my life is sad." It's there when I wake up, it's there as soon as people leave the room, and I have no idea what is wrong or how to fix it. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is how I'm supposed to feel. Maybe I just need to talk it out, work it out.

Theory 1 is easy to prove. I know I took them today. I will make sure to take them tomorrow, and the next day, and if I start to feel anxious and paranoid then I'll know that I'm introducing meds into my system as opposed to continuing them. This is what I'm hoping for. I'm hoping I just messed up which means I know how to fix it.

If that doesn't work, I talk to my shrink about theory 2 and 3. I have an appointment on the 29th.

In the meanwhile, well, you may see a good deal of moping before this is over.

I kinda wanted to leave the previous post on top for a little while longer

but rules is rules, especially the arbitrary ones I made up. I sent another message. I post it to the blog.

Radio Essay: First Mixdown

Still a work in progress. I have a meeting about this on Tuesday.

I spend too much time analyzing S.D.

I need someone else to think too much about.

3 1/2 weeks

and I still have a crush.

I was going to say more but it got really boring.

for some reason this kind of thing makes me happy

We were talking in class about Allyson's project, which involves people writing down stories about their possessions. (It's actually a bit more complicated than that, but that's okay.) Larry was saying how he really responded to the different stories. One story he identified with, and really liked the narrator. Another story he described as from someone who was like, twelve or something, and was so stupid that someone should take her out and drown her. What he didn't know, because the stories were anonymous, was that it was mine.

So why am I gleeful? I guess I just like having a juicy story more than I mind having my classmate tell me (unknowingly) to my face that I'm too stupid to live. I am such a drama queen.

In Praise of A Gate at the Stairs

A little bit like Lorrie Moore does Joyce Carol Oates, but so much better because it is Lorrie Moore. It made me think about things I don't like to think about, and then it made me cry, and then I remembered to take my drugs today, and I stopped to write this but I am still waiting for resolution.

numbers

There are particular ages that stand out in my memory. Those numbers have an order, a place, a story attached. They are chapter headings. 15, 19, 29. I don't always remember exactly the order of things, so I attach events and people to the nearest chapter and call it good. The numbers in between I lose track of.

The entirety of high school happened at 15. At 15 I had my first boyfriend who gave me my first kiss, and my second boyfriend who fucked me. I have begun to summarize the experience with the phrase, "I didn't lose my virginity voluntarily." Which is both much more and much less than what I remember.

At 15 years old, I was a liar. I lied mostly to my parents, who I believed (as all 15 year olds do) were intolerably strict. Now that I write this I cannot remember any specific instances of lying to someone other than my parents. But I am convinced: I lied. I learned to consider all possible answers to any given question. I am afraid, sometimes, that I have irretrievably lost my sense of truth, that I may be a liar.

I went to college at 19, spent four years there, and left at 19. It was the beginning of my adult life, although I have spent the entire time since then denying all evidence of adulthood. I tell people that at heart I am still 19, on my own for the first time and realizing that I can eat cereal with ice cream for breakfast and no one will stop me.

29 was my ten year mark. At 29 I could start to say that I've been doing something, or not doing something, for ten years. It makes for a clean story. I am still telling it. I am still 29, even though part of the mystique of graduate school was that I would graduate at 30. That isn't the story anymore. I started, I will finish, at 29. I think this may be why I have such a hard time acknowledging my birthday. It's not that I don't want to be 30, but because I am already rounding my experiences to fit the story. I know that when I tell these events later, they will begin with the phrase when I was 29.

Dear (other) Mike,

Thank you for being flattered. Thank you for letting it just be that. I should put you in charge of all my rejections.

Your friend,
Angela

p.s. Since there is already a Mike on this blog, I'm afraid you're stuck with Other Mike. You know how it goes.

I don't mind when you're not around

We'll go out sometime, have a drink. I'll tell you about the crazy crush I have, and maybe you'll say thanks but no thanks, you're incredibly flattered, and I'm amazing but you're just not interested or you don't have the time, you're so busy, you'll sound so sincere and look so disappointed. And I will awkwardly backtrack, it's not that big a deal, don't feel bad.

Or maybe not.

Is that too much to ask?

Friday again

I haven't been to the gym in more than a week. I've been binge eating again. I am behind in my classes. I am tired. I missed application deadlines. My resume sucks. Fuck that, my resume is empty. I start to think about what I need to do and I panic. I shut down. Erin said that it sounded like my life was going really well, and I think yeah. I have rainbow painted nails. The sex is good. I am happy as long as I'm not thinking, and I'm really good at not thinking. So I'm happy.

Obsessive Collection Piece: Now With Added October!

Infatuation, continued

I think if there were already the words we needed, we wouldn't need writers. If there were a word for how I feel I wouldn't have to try to string together a dozen instead. If I could string together a dozen to adequately express myself I wouldn't have to keep trying. Writing is necessary because it fails.

Satanist Dan

He makes me pancakes in the morning and texts me during the day to say hi, and instead of rolling my eyes or worrying that he's too attached or feeling claustrophobic, I grin and giggle. When I say he called! my voice squeeks a little, too high pitched to come out right.

Nadir

I feel like I've reached some sort of peak (or nadir, depending on how you look at it) of weird messages, and now I'm settling back into something almost approximating normal. Sort of.

New Test Results

I retook the OKCupid test again, with new data from the last month. My new results:

Your sexual avarice is legendary. You’ve already had an unusually high amount of experience, and, still you look for more. You intimidate many. You make no apologies.

Personality-wise, you’re carefree and relatively easy-going. You don’t plan things out ahead of time; you tend to live in the moment. Of course, this can cause some damage when the moment happens to include a screaming orgasm with his younger brother. Hence the ‘brutal’ tag we’ve given you.

But you know what, take five seconds to lock the doors, and you’ll be fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little sex, or a whole lot.

It's true

Things I don't feel like doing.

Tuesday: remake Light & Color slide show. Make lighting demo?
Wednesday: read
Thursday: class all day
Friday: mix radio essay, read

Reading: Narrative book, Spalding Gray, John Tagg, Feminist packet

Tonight I think it's okay if I spend the night editing photos. It is productive, just not due anytime soon.

Feeling sorry for myself

Yeah, sorry. This is the kind of thing that embarrasses me to make public. I hate feeling sorry for myself. It's my birthday tomorrow, and I didn't say anything really, not to anyone. I felt like this one should be special, a big deal, a big party, something more than a couple people at Deadwood. Except I'm not the kind of person who throws big parties; I don't know how. I don't really know enough people. So rather than try and fail, I decided to not care. Or at least pretend to not care.

yeah.

This blog needs more pretty pictures again

here you go
Nebraska State Fair 2009

I didn't realize when I sat down to write how much I wanted to say.

People ask me sometimes why I blog a particular thing, or why I blog in general. They wonder what appeal Twitter has for me. I usually tell them that I live almost entirely in my head, with a constant narration voiced over every activity. It's like I experience my life in the third person. And so when I blog, or tweet, what I'm doing is taking that narration and making it real. The words become real when they exist in a public space. And that is deeply satisfying to me in ways I can't quite explain. I can't get enough of it. It's not about readership. I talk aloud to myself in an empty room; I would write these words to an empty internet, if such a thing existed. It's not about being read, it's about being readable.

I also remember telling someone once that I have no sense of privacy. I have no filters, not where the internet is concerned. I send a tweet on Wednesday evening at 7:30 saying that I'm going over to Satanist Dan's house for a thinly-veiled study break. I send a tweet at 12:30 that same night saying I'm back. I sometimes enjoy appearing enigmatic, but it's an affectation. I like the appearance of being coy more than I care about actually protecting information.

So it feels very odd as I write this, because I do want to withhold details. I'm not sure if it's because of a not-quite-buried sense of privacy, or embarrassment. It may be shame. I'm still processing what happened and why, what I liked and didn't like and why. I think that the overall lessons are already apparent. I think my experiment with acting out, this strange and exciting excursion into being a woman of loose morals, is over.

I'm watching myself play out my life according to an already established script. I'm such a cliche. Look at the girl getting into a serious relationship in her early 20s. Look at her uproot her life in her late 20s to move across the country to go to graduate school. Look at her reexamine her life, realize she isn't in love, realize she isn't the person she wants to be. Look as she gets closer and closer to her 30th birthday: she gets her lip pierced in San Francisco. She starts drinking. She starts dating. She starts sleeping around. It's classic mid life crisis, minus the red car, or at least a slightly early case of the 30-something angst that seems so popular these days.

And the next part of the story, of course, is where I realize that meaningless sex is, in fact, meaningless. And not only am I not any happier when it's over and the latex is being removed, but I'm not even that happy during the process. Meaningless sex isn't even very good sex. This isn't some grand revelation. I knew this is exactly the conclusion I was going to come to. But I felt like I needed to get there myself. I've always had the answers in the back of the book but if I couldn't show my work, what use are answers?

It may be too early to say that I'm done with this part of my life. There is obviously a big difference between deciding to do something, and actually doing it. Perhaps next weekend Boy 3 will call again, and offer the same deal, and I may decide that the excitement, the newness, the slightly scandalous nature of the offer makes it appealing enough to accept. Then again, perhaps affection will overwhelm reason and I will convince myself that I am in love with Satanist Dan, that I want him and no one else for ever and only.

I like to think that neither will happen. I like to think that Dan will call me again soon. We will eat mint ice cream and watch cartoons sprawled on his couch, his hands rubbing my back, kissing during commercials. And I will keep sending out messages, hoping someone will write me back, and we will chat over coffee, then drinks, and I will wonder if this new boy wants to kiss me because I really want him to. I will get a big goofy grin when he calls. I want goofy grins. As I process the last 48 hours, that is what stands out, what is missing.

Melancholy Sunday Night

The Complications of Liking Satanist Dan

I'm actually starting to feel mildly girlfriend-y with Boy 2, enough that I'm getting a slight twinge of -something- sending this. I think I may have actually chosen to not send another message on account of it. This requires a bit of thought: is it because I don't want to keep looking, or is it just because I'm still caught up in the monogamous mindset enough to feel guilt over things I don't think are wrong?

Or is it just that the message I didn't send was to someone who mentions hanging out at Deadwood, which, as the bar Boy 2 is most often at, might be awkward?

I do still want to see Boy 3 again (although thankfully boy 2 has helped dampen the crazy), and I don't feel so weird about that. Maybe it's the difference between having someone else and looking for someone else. The latter sort of implies a dissatisfaction with what I have. And I'm happy. I like Boy 2. I'm looking forward to seeing him again, and I think there's a good chance that it isn't just infatuation or sex. Although we'll have to wait a few weeks to verify a lack of infatuation.

But meeting new people is exciting. Being flirted with is exciting. Having possibilities, even if they never work out, is exciting.

And the letter writing has become such a habit that I'm not even sure that writing these letters and looking for a date are the same thing at all.

And yet, that twinge. It says "Boy 2 may know that, in theory, we have no exclusive commitment, but that's not the same as knowing that, in practice, I send out letters every day. Is it something that seems like I shouldn't talk about to him because it's just polite to keep them separated, or because I'm hiding something from him?"

The voice also says "you like the boyfriend-y things he does and if you take those things while sending these letters you are being duplicitous and taking advantage which is hardly a nice thing to do to someone you like."

I suppose the answer, like usual, is communication. We've been going on assumptions, and I don't really know what his assumptions are.

addiction

I don't know if I know how to stop.

Decoys for Tonight

One guy stood me up again tonight. Another guy I can't get my mind off of. So I sent out a few more letters to distract myself.

From last night before I lost my internet

I'm going to be maudlin. I'm going to be embarrassed by this in the morning.

Yeah.

I was having so much fun, flitting around, that I forgot the real reason I'd chosen Fun over Real in the first place. It's not really because I'm moving. I've been saying even if I found Real, what would I do with it, I'm leaving, but that's not entirely true.

The truth is, I think if I found Real, I'd still just use it for how it makes me feel, and the only important thing would continue to be me. I don't know if I can change, and I don't think I can offer anything Real until I do.

Rough draft for Radio Essays #3

I think this is my last edit before I start recording. I'm really happy with it.

Last week I answered a personal ad from a Satanist named Dan. He wanted to perform ritualistic sex in order to bring about the rise of Lucifer. The phrases sacrifice altar and satanic slit come up. I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m hoping he’ll write me back.

My name is Angela and I’m 29 years old. I can type 50 words per minute with a cat on my lap, and 75 words per minute without help. I can dance the Charleston and make ordinary things beautiful. I am short, fat, half-Asian, and a Libra with Libra rising. I live in Iowa City, and, like everyone else, I’m looking for love.

Okay, well, I’m looking for what OKCupid.com calls a short term relationship. Plentyoffish.com calls it dating, and my friends call it “kind-of-sort-of seeing-someone-I-think.” It falls somewhere in between u-hauls and one night stands. I’m looking for non-committal answers. I’m hoping to keep “love” out of the equation.

Sent to Alfonse, August 17^th, 3:33am: I like that you’re online at 3:22am, even though I shouldn't be online, or even awake. These messages, sent sort of in the dark, are strange to write, and must be strange to read. I can never decide if I should try to lessen the weirdness, or go all-out. Ideally, I will convince you that I'm interesting enough to warrant a message back. I'd like that.

I started browsing craigslist ads a couple months ago. They were funny in a sad sort of way, like reality television shows or gossip magazines.

Sexy Italian, 23, loves football, baseball, and his little dog, Ruffles.

Hot chocolate for experienced cougar, 34, likes movies and traveling.

Nice college man, 19, has a girlfriend who’s boring and bad in bed.

Who writes these things? And how could anyone take them seriously?

Sent to tubamyst, August 17^th 11:17pm: Your profile amuses me. Hopefully, you will be entertained enough, either by this awkward note, or my profile, to be interested in further communication. Messages back are good. So is meeting for coffee.

Mike was the first person to reply. Mike was about 5’10,” with a pale complexion, a lumpy, shaved head, and a goatee. He was actually kind of lumpy all over. We wrote back and forth a few times. He couldn’t call because he didn’t have any long distance. He couldn’t meet me at most of the places I suggested because he didn’t have a working car. Those were warning signs. I ignored them. We got burgers and milkshakes and talked about video games. We went to his place to watch TV. What I should have expected, but didn’t, was that his “place” was a trailer, complete with broken down cars outside and a strong aroma of cat pee. I wasn’t sure if the stains covering the carpet were from his 20 pound cat or from spilled bong water. And even though this guy was a stranger that I never intended to see or talk to again, I still felt obligated to stay a few hours and pretend that everything was fine. We watched Michael and Michael Have Issues. We watched Burn Notice. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to get as much distance as I could between my nose and the furniture. In front of me, international super spies in white suits and convertibles chased each other through Miami. They had amazing tans. I leaned in towards the television, as if it were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The next day, he asked when I wanted to come by again. I never wrote him back.

After Mike was Dragoli, 22 years old and living 500 miles away in Michigan. He asked me, over instant message, to be his girlfriend. He was very polite; he even said please. After Dragoli was Jonathan, who was in the Army Reserve and needed a date to take to an Christmas party so they wouldn’t think he was gay. I’m pretty sure I’m not what the army was looking for in a date.

Sent to pdot1973, August 29^th, 4:40 pm: I'm intrigued by your air of mystery. Or at least your self-conscious, thwarted attempt at creating an air of mystery. So the next step seems to be sending you a message so you will visit my profile, screen me for whatever it is you're looking to find, and write back. Hopefully, you are not looking for mystery. I'm not so good at that. Long-winded, I am very good at. Taking things seriously? Not so good at that, either.

Step three then, is waiting for a reply. Please do, that would be fun.

I sent out messages on a regular basis, sometimes as many as four or five in a day, form letters applying for any open position. After a few dozen of them they all started to sound the same. I made small adjustments from one message to another, in order to give the appearance of personalization. I might refer briefly to a movie they talk about on their profile to prove that I read it. I might mention my profile in the hopes that they would read it. But only those details changed. My goal remained the same. I wanted to schedule an interview. I tried to present myself in an honest, but flattering manner, self-promoting but not arrogant. Due to standard internet attention spans I tried to keep it to 200 words or less.

Sent yesterday to mnench, 7:18pm: I am 7 years, 12 inches, and one Y chromosome away from you. I like watching people paint. I also think that most things are not as obvious as people assume they are. Will you write back?

So far, out of several dozen messages sent, only four people have replied. This might mean that my letters are successfully filtering out the frat boys, dungeon and dragons players, and people with aversions to short, fat, half-asian, Libras. Or it might mean that I come across as having schizophrenic tendencies, and have scared off anyone with sense or intelligence. But this letter writing campaign has become an end in itself. I have developed a sly fondness for these messages. I have begun saving them, electronic mementos of imaginary love affairs.

Dan the Satanist is one of the four who wrote back. When he’s not performing dark rituals in Boba Fett costume, he runs a creamery outside of town.

I can’t wait to meet him.

Sheesh

But Who Cares About Data Anyway?

New Data Says Short Messages Succeed

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Collection

My First Radio Project

Text adapted from How To Become a Writer, by Lorrie Moore, from her book Self Help.
Music: Walk or Ride and Wishful Thinking, by The Ditty Bops, from their self-titled album,
and Sleep, by The Dandy Warhols, from their album Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia

Wednesday afternoon

I am thinking more and more about stories. About how much of our lives are dependent on the stories we tell ourselves. Facts are meaningless. It is the interpretations that mean something, that reach out and push us along. Change how we tell the story, and the world changes.

The way I tell it.

Those of you who know me in person already know the story. You have probably heard it enough to even know the way I tell the story: the specific words and phrases that have become as much a part of story as the ideas they denote.

Sign, Signifier, Signified.

I was a writer once.

I won a college award or two. I got a poem published in The Iowa Review; it was my shining joy. I took classes, ran the literary journal on campus, planned for graduate school. I fell asleep with words in my head and some nights I woke up at midnight, one, two, five in the morning, frantic, full of hope and desperation and too many adjectives.

You have to understand, I was a writer once. This university was a celebrity to me: sexy, funny, smart, and way out of my league. It was the best writing program in the country. I wrote agonized love poems and memorized its schedule. I dreamed. So when I say, I got a poem published in The Iowa Review, that's what it means. It means it looked at me once, and smiled.

I was a writer once, ten--almost eleven--years ago. I was 19. I was taking beginning photo. I was taking intermediate photo. Then I was 20 and I was taking advanced photo and studio lighting. I bought a 4x5 camera, and I always smelled like fixer. I had stained everything I owned. And I slept through the night.

It felt like I had lost my words.

I stopped writing. I exchanged English classes for ceramics, design, sculpture. I got a job at a photo store after graduation. I began to tell the story to myself, of how I had been a writer once.

Now I am turning 30, and in my last year of graduate school. I am in the photography program. I make pretty pictures. I'm good at it; people like them. I tell the story, to myself, to others, about how I had been a writer once, but not anymore. I gave up words for pretty pictures. It goes along with the story about living in an apartment in Berkeley with a girl who worked in a sex dungeon, or the story about my teenage rebellions. These things are part of where I come from, they explain my blue hair, the leather corset in my closet, my lack of art history credits in undergrad.

So when I tell you that I am in a graduate writing class at this university, it doesn't mean just that. It means this semester, and last semester, and everything I have believed about myself for the last ten, almost eleven years, for nearly all of my adult life.

And when I tell you that my first workshop went well, it means everything.

How?

My god, is this my life?

I am dating. I am dating in multiples. I am making first moves. I am texting one guy while sitting in another guy's bed.

I can't believe it's me doing it, and I can't believe it's working. I can't believe I've conned not only one guy, but two or even possibly more, into finding me desirable. I'm almost starting to think that I might be desirable. This is a dangerous thought.

I am a little surprised, and a little amused, that my degree seems to be helping me get laid. More than one guy has mentioned it. Apparently graduate degrees are sexy? Or maybe it adds to bragging rights or something, like big tits. Man, I made out with this girl at the bar last night, and she had the biggest fucking tits and a Masters in Art.

Oooh a followup!

en masse

(click image for fullscreen view)

Rough draft for Radio Essays #2

Last week I talked to a stranger 500 miles away. He asked me to be his girlfriend. He was very polite; he even said “please.” I also answered a personal ad from a Satanist named Dan. He wanted to perform ritualistic sex in order to bring about the rise of Lucifer. The phrases sacrifice altar and satanic slit came up. I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m hoping he’ll write me back.

My name is Angela and I’m 29 years old. Like everyone else, I’m looking for love.

Well, I’m looking for what OKCupid.com calls a short term relationship. Plentyoffish.com calls it dating, and my friends call it “kind-of-sort-of seeing-someone-I-think.” It falls somewhere in between u-hauls and one night stands. I’m looking for non-committal answers. I’m hoping to keep “love” out of the equation.

At first, I didn’t think of myself as looking for anything at all. When I started browsing personal ads on craigslist six months ago, I told myself I wasn’t actually trying to find a date. I just liked reading the ads. They were funny in a sad sort of way, like reality television shows or gossip magazines.

Sexy Italian, 23, loves football, baseball, and his little dog, Ruffles.

Hot chocolate for experienced cougar, 34, likes movies and traveling.

Nice college man, 19, has a girlfriend who’s boring and bad in bed.

Who writes these things? And how could anyone take them seriously?

Every once and a while, I would read a personal ad that was neither sad nor funny, that sounded less like sociological studies of frat boys and dungeon and dragons players, and more like excerpts from my own conversations. Some of the ads had a sense of humor: a little self-deprecating, a little quirky. They came from people sitting at their computers while their friends were out of town for the summer, or from people getting started in a new city. They weren’t looking for love but just for friendly company. I thought I might enjoy having extra company. I started answering ads.

Mike was the first person to reply. We wrote back and forth a few times. He couldn’t call because he didn’t have any long distance. He couldn’t meet me at most of the places I suggested because he didn’t have a working car. Those were warning signs. I ignored them. I wanted to give him a chance, and so I ended up spending an evening watching TV in a trailer that smelled like cat pee. And even though this guy was a stranger that I never intended to see or talk to again, I still felt obligated to stay a few hours and pretend that everything was fine. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to get as much distance as I could between my nose and the furniture. I leaned in towards the television, as if it were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The next day, he asked when I wanted to come by again. I never wrote him back. I did, however, keep answering ads.

Soon, I was answering ads that weren’t just looking for friends. I didn’t really take it seriously; I didn’t think anything would come of it. But I liked to think about dating. And the more I thought about dating, the more I liked the idea of it.

I joined a dating site. I wrote my personal description like a resume, appraising my strengths and finding ways to highlight them. My skills include typing 50 words per minute with a cat on my lap, and 75 words per minute without help. I can dance the Charleston, and make ordinary things beautiful. I am short, fat, and half-Asian. I don’t smoke, drink often, and don’t plan on bearing anyone’s offspring. I’m a Libra. I like cats.

I started sending out messages on a regular basis, sometimes as many as four or five in a day, form letters applying for any open position. After a few dozen of them they all started to sound the same. I made small adjustments from one message to another, in order to give the appearance of personalization. I might refer briefly to a movie they talk about on their profile to prove that I read it. I might mention my profile in the hopes that they would read it. But only those details changed. My goal remained the same. I wanted to schedule an interview. I tried to present myself in an honest, but flattering manner, self-promoting but not arrogant, and communicate a sense of my personality. Due to standard internet attention spans I tried to keep it to 200 words or less.

Sent to Alfonse, August 17^th, 3:33am: I like that you’re online at 3:22am, even though I shouldn't be online, or even awake. These messages, sent sort of in the dark, are strange to write, and must be strange to read. I can never decide if I should try to lessen the weirdness, or go all-out. Ideally, I will convince you that I'm interesting enough to warrant a message back. I'd like that.
Sent to tubamyst, August 17^th 11:17pm: Your profile amuses me. Hopefully, you will be entertained enough, either by this awkward note, or my profile, to be interested in further communication. Messages back are good. So is meeting for coffee.

Sent to pdot1973, August 29^th, 4:40 pm: I'm intrigued by your air of mystery. Or at least your self-conscious, thwarted attempt at creating an air of mystery. So the next step seems to be sending you a message so you will visit my profile, screen me for whatever it is you're looking to find, and write back. Hopefully, you are not looking for mystery. I'm not so good at that. Long-winded, I am very good at. Taking things seriously? Not so good at that, either.

Step three then, is waiting for a reply. Please do, that would be fun.

Sent yesterday to mnench, 7:18pm: I am 7 years, 12 inches, and one Y chromosome away from you. I like watching people paint. I also think that most things are not as obvious as people assume they are. Will you write back?

I still haven't actually had any dates. So far, out of several dozen messages sent, four people have replied. This might mean that my letters are successfully filtering out the frat boys, dungeon and dragons players, and people with aversions to short, fat, half-asian, Libras. Or it might mean that I come across as having schizophrenic tendencies, and have scared off anyone with sense or intelligence. But this letter writing campaign has become an end in itself. I have developed a sly fondness for these messages. I have begun saving them, electronic mementos of imaginary love affairs.

Dan the Satanist is one of the four who wrote back. When he’s not performing dark rituals in Boba Fett costume, he runs a creamery outside of town.

I can’t wait to meet him.

Statistics

Someone asked me how many responses I get to these OKCupid and craigslist emails I send out:

I've sent about 25-30 of these.

Out of those, about 8 people wrote back.

When I replied to those 8 people, only 4 replied back again:

1) The guy who lives in the cat-pee-smelling-trailer.
2) Ryan, who is a friend
3) Dan, who is the guy I stay up until 4am talking to. I really really like him but don't know if it's as friends or not, I still haven't met him in person.
4. Satanist Dan, who I think I'm having drinks with on Sunday

There have been 3 people who contacted me first: B, Jeremy, and one other guy I met twice and then didn't want to see again.

I have been told that my lack of response on OKCupid is bizarre. Because the guy/girl ratio is so strongly skewed, I hear that most girls get bombarded. I assume that I am either bizarrely unattractive or sufficiently weird to filter out all those guys. But I figure, anyone who gets filtered out because of my funny profile pic, or these strange messages, is probably someone I don't mind losing. I honestly don't know what "normal" letters look like and I don't know if I could write one if I tried.

And I do have people that I am very glad to have gotten to know- Ryan, both Dans, and Jeremy. So I do feel like this endeavor has been successful. Much more so than I would have thought.

Obsessive Collection piece #00PX95-1

Obsessive Collection piece #00PX95

Seeing Other People: update

All is well. Understanding has been reached, and with minimal awkwardness or unpleasantness. Actually, with no unpleasantness at all, except in my own reluctance to begin the conversation. Now if only Dan the Satanist would write back.

Seeing Other People

I feel a little guilty sending this because Jeremy & I haven't had the "what are we doing" conversation, and I think he's assuming that we're in a monogamous relationship, which is not an absurd assumption.

We've seen each other or talked on the phone every day for a week.

But I'm not ready to give this up. I don't want to stop looking and meeting people. It's such a cliche, but I don't want to feel tied down. I've spent my life going from one committed relationship to another, jumping in right away, and now that I'm "dating" for the first time, I don't want to give it up.

I talked to Jeremy on the phone for a while last night and it reminded me that I do like him even without physical contact. But then I got off the phone and wrote this message.

Unfortunately, what this means is, I need to have the talk with Jeremy. I don't want to. I am the Queen of Avoiding Difficult Conversations. But it's not fair to let him keep going on a misunderstanding, and it will only get worse the longer it goes. Also, I'd rather break the news that I'm still looking to date other people, as opposed to breaking the news that I am dating other people. And even that would be better than him just finding me out on a date.

So, tonight. I guess. Wish me luck.

in progress: for radio essay

This morning I talked to a stranger 500 miles away. He asked me to be his girlfriend. He was very polite; he even said “please.” I also answered a personal ad from someone looking to perform ritualistic sex in order to bring about the rise of Lucifer. The phrases sacrifice altar and satanic slit come up. I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m hoping he’ll write me back.

My name is Angela, and, like everyone else, I’m looking for love.

Okay, well, I’m looking for what OKCupid.com calls a short term relationship. Plentyoffish.com calls it dating, and my friends call it “kind-of-sort-of seeing-someone-I-think.” It falls somewhere in between u-hauls and one night stands. I’m looking for non-committal answers. I’m hoping to keep “love” out of the equation.

I started browsing personal ads on craigslist a couple months ago, just for fun. I made sure to read even the ads that weren’t directed at me, because I didn’t want to be someone reading craigslist ads for a date. This was strictly for entertainment purposes only.

Sexy Italian, 23, loves football, baseball, and his little dog, Ruffles.

Hot chocolate for experienced cougar, 34, likes movies and traveling.

Nice college man, 19, has a girlfriend. He’s looking for friends with benefits.

Then I started answering personal ads. Just the ads that were looking for friends, people stuck in town for the summer with not a lot of company and not many responsibilities.

One guy wrote back to me and said he couldn’t call because he didn’t have any long distance. He couldn’t meet me at most of the places I suggested because he didn’t have a working car. Those were warning signs. I ignored them. I wanted to give him a chance, and so I ended up spending an evening watching TV in a trailer that smelled like cat pee. And even though this guy was a stranger that I never intended to see or talk to again, I still felt obliged to stay a few hours and pretend that everything was fine. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to get as much distance as I could between my nose and the furniture. I leaned in towards the television, as if it were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The next day, he asked when I wanted to come by again. I never wrote him back. I did, however, keep answering ads.

Things to do this weekend:

1. Write 5 page personal narrative, due Friday @ 5p

2. Record, edit, Lorrie Moore, due Tuesday @6p

3. Make slide show for class, due Thursday @1:30p

4. Everything else: due the following week

#1 and #2 are the ones that scare me the most. #1 will take the longest, and I really must accomplish something on it today. And I am absolutely fucking terrified of it.

Sixty Fucking Pounds

(Some people have misunderstood: I cross them off when I pass them)

I'm getting embarrassed by these--

--almost embarrassed enough to stop posting them, but I'm stubborn, and it's not like I was impressing anyone before anyway. So I now have public documentation of this sad little project I've embarked on. My only defense is that I don't take it very seriously.

Obsessive Collection piece #24a and 24c

(It makes more sense in context.)

Obsessive Collection piece #5871

It's a shame, 'cause he really does look awesome. Oh well.

Obsessive Collection piece #58

notes for essay #1

My name is Angela, and I'm a liar.

[insert a few long winded, funny-but-sweet stories here]

I like making up meaningless catalogue numbers

Obsessive collection piece #56a

Things to do when my paycheck arrives

pay State Farm
buy books for class
apply for shows/contests
buy Iowa threadless shirt


there was more but I'm sleepy and forgot

*giggle*

I need to write new artist statements. I really have no idea what I want to say. One of the biggest incentives to keep going with the self portrait project is that I already have an artist statement for it. (Don't get me wrong, I am not one of those people railing against the idea of writing artists statements. I'm just stumbling on these particular ones.)

So I took my old statement, and replaced "me" with "dioramas." Ta-daa! New statement:

I don't know where along the line I began to see natural history dioramas as something other, a separate entity with its own set of needs, desires, its own agenda. I plead with dioramas, I argue with them, bargain with them. I make them promises. I punish them, I reward them, and all the while I never actually acknowledge them. They are the space I reside in, but they are not me. I created a psychic separation between dioramas and my mind. Then after the separation came a kind of willful ignorance. I no longer know what dioramas look like. I haven’t wanted to know.

Needs some work.