11/24/05
I always feel a little out of place, spending chunks of time in the bathroom at every house show, washing the blood of the mosh pit off my forearms. At D's house, I feel a little safer. I can leave my coat on his bed, take the pills in his medicine cabinet to loosen my taut, ease into things a bit more. We host art openings, hang streamers and make hats out of foil and smoke inside. The living room blooms with a blue leather couch, a stereo, the front porch creaky the night it splinters into the front yard, the vodka/water-got-turned-back-on party a haven of weird and eerie, bodies caked with sweat engulfed by each other, every corner full of seething skin.
This is a femme look for me: gauzy, flimsy, airy, tartan scarf holding down my ethereal second skin. I watch E from across the apartment, hold hands with G, kiss M on the neck, a small flutter. I hope this is a fraction of the world I will once inhabit: open, warm, endless clear liquor, a notebook in my jeans pocket and a pen behind my ear.
I am reading Beat poets, early Diane DiPrima, all of Plath. I am hurting, writing about longing, something formless in my chest, withering.
