#thechapess

IT'S HERE selected work from issues 1-9 + more!

The Chapess #9 has just come out, with a cover by yer girl!☺

I've dated punks, I've dated punk rockers, squatters, crusties and dread-heads. They all stank.  Every one of them. They stank like the end of music festivals. The smell of sewered-on fields, beer, whiskey, the sour smell of weed, lighter fluid, spunk-filled latex condoms, piss, sick. The sick smell was more like the after-sick. The aura of the post-vomit, the gastric acids on the breath via the burnt oesophagus, acid eroding the tooth enamel, convulsing tongues licking at dried mouths.

They all vomited in front of me at one stage or another. Some in strategic moves to purge their stomach to make way for another alcoholic watering. Some just before sex to straighten out, and some in the morning but then I’d usually be at it too by then. Ha ha! At first I thought it was gross but then I grew to really love the vibe of someone who had just thrown up. I dunno, there's something really visceral, really real about a guy who's just puked and in the next moment is picking up his axe and getting back to work.

Every one of them had waxy clothes, stiffened by spilt bong juice, mud, sweated on, slept in, even their fingers were waxy. If they touched my face or body, it felt like I was being caressed by a Barbour jacket. I bet if they'd have rubbed their fingers together they would eventually rub the layers of sediment on their skin into little tiny black dirt balls. Even their boogers were black. They showed me on occasion. They would take their silt entombed, overgrown fingernails and shove them up their dirt freckled noses, root around mining for the clumpy, sticky paste.

Before we would have sex I would force each and every one of them to shower with soap. I would get them all revved up, we’d get to a serious dry-hump stage, then I would say, you know, "dude, you gotta get clean”. Then I would go to the bathroom, switch on the shower and hand them a bottle of shower gel. Their hair would always stink but it's the body that counts in that circumstance. I can boil wash my cheap pillows. I can't boil wash my insides.

The reason I’m telling you this, the reason I want you to know is because, well I’m no phony imposter ok? I created myself too.

I remember the first time I saw you, GG. You were pacing out the back of the Poolbar in downtown LA before your show. You looked so fucking hot. I knew then, right then, in an instant that I wanted you. Some people called you a neanderthal, a shitbag, a buddy of mine once told me that your old high school teacher described you as a wolverine. I liked that! The next day I looked up the definition of a wolverine: the Wolverine is a stocky and muscular carnivore, more closely resembling a bear. It has short legs, a broad and rounded head, small eyes and short rounded ears and is the size of a medium dog.The Wolverine has a reputation for ferocity and strength out of proportion to its size, it has the ability to kill prey many times larger than itself. Like many other mustelids, it has potent anal scent glands used for marking territory  and sexual signalling.

I thought that was particularly apt for you. You, the underground messiah, the human animal - Public Animal No.1. Your body is a rock n roll temple. Your flesh, blood and body fluids are a communion to us. You are Jesus Christ, God and the Devil. You created Elvis. You, the commanding leader and terrorist of rock ’n’ roll. Even before you were born you were plotting. You are the one throwing all the monkey wrenches into the gears. Nobody has your endurance, baby. Nobody has the endurance to finish what they were set out to fucking do!

Oh GG, I ache for you. I woke up so sad this morning. I dreamt that you were dreaming about me. In my dream I wake up and discover that you'd left a voicemail on my Dad’s house phone during the night. So when I woke up this morning I checked and there was no message. I keep recalling the message you leave in the dream.

That time by the dumpsters, before the show, I swear you noticed me. Did you see me? I looked over, I could make myself out in the refection of your mirrored aviators. Did you feel the connection? I swear you blushed, was it colour in your cheeks or dried blood? I carry that moment with me everywhere now. I know you don't believe in compassion but I imagine you vulnerable, needing me. I imagine you the moment after you slammed that microphone into your mouth and knocked out all your teeth. The pain you must have been in, the comfort you must have needed.

I gotta say, I love the way your mouth looks now. Your Fu Manchu mustache really frames it. It's handsome. I like the way your upper lip is loose, you look older. I guess your skin drapes over your facial structure, which makes it way more expressive. Do you even eat now? Or do you eat through a straw? My Grandpa lost all his teeth and now he gurns a lot. His whole jaw bone is dissolving away, my Dad was telling me that the chewing pressure stimulates the bone. He told me that eventually the bone will shrink and the nerves will become exposed. I wonder what it must be like to chew gum with no teeth?

Someone once referred to you, an angry Dad once referred to you as the devil himself rendering you a nightmare, he said "you.. are.. a.. nightmare! You're a nightmare!". I watched that footage from the Springer show. It was hilarious.

Those stupid assholes will never understand you.

fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because I always spend more time here than I’d like to. “Let me show you something,” that’s how it starts. fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because even though there are ones closer to my house you’ve somehow convinced me that traveling the extra distance is worth it for what’s seemingly “bigger and better.” fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because I hate the way my hands are being touched by such ingenuine hands hands with motives, hands with an agenda. fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because I am thinking of my girlfriend the whole time. I think of my girlfriend and I think “Yeah, she would like this.” fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because suddenly my hair feels both clean and dirty at the same time. fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because I got a hot cinnamon pretzel afterwards. what? I got hungry. fucking you is like shopping at LUSH because even when I get home I see your face among my things. i see your face and it’s saying “Yep, I’m responsible for this. And you’re going to come back for more.”

I had booked a hostel in what I imagined to be the midtown of DF, but instead of advertisements there were cathedrals. They evoked the same gestures out of tourists, but instead of a backdrop of the Mecca of sugar snacks, tourists posed for photos in a similar fashion with tear stained eyes masked in incense.  

I walk around, I’m wearing a giant jumpsuit that I call my baby suit. It’s not sexy at all, but I look good and I wear it whenever I travel. In New York, my baby suit yields many compliments except when I am on a bike. The thin draped fabric inflates as I pedal, the color is that of a cheap fat suit. While in motion it gives the illusion of an obese woman on a miniature bicycle.

So I’m feeling good about being with other people. There are many couples kissing in the streets, children running while smiling, nobody has their hands in their pockets. It’s a beautiful day with beautiful stores. My favorite store is filled with rotating wedding dresses, silk flowers reflecting the neon lights of the displays. The city is busy, a welcome change from the sleepy town I would buy little cakes and cheap wine in. I’m alone and it’s terribly safe. I feel resentment for all my relatives who advised me not to wear earrings. All the women are wearing earrings. I’m wearing a baby suit.

I’m thirsty. I stop into a corner store to get some water. I’m smiling as I pick up my water and I notice a gentleman staring at me with disgust and confusion. He slithers through the tiny aisles as I decide on what kind of nuts I want to chew on. I make my way up to the counter and he approaches me. “Do you think you’re funny?” he asks me in Spanish. I notice his purple velvet pants and paisley vest. I wonder if he is an actor. You can never trust actors. “Excuse me?” I say. “Why aren’t you dressed like a woman? You are doing your body no favors! Are you a joke?” he says. “Fuck you! Who are you to tell me about my body!” I yell back at him. I exit the store moving my hips however I please. I wonder where the feminists hang out here.    

For my stay in Mexico I’ve been reading Sex and Repression in a Savage Society, a study examining the sexual habits of Melanesian and British families. In Melanesia, the family structure is matrilineal which Bronislaw Malinowski argues leads to primordial Edipus tendencies that are repressed, but maintained. This plasticity of instincts can be manifested in many ways, one being masking the complex with deflecting and ignorance. I’ve made up my mind that this actor was in love with his mother, and my dressing like a baby became a trigger for his suppressed, misunderstood feelings.

While back at my hostel I become friends with Humberto, a visitor from Colombia who owns a small camping space where he tells me it is the only place on Earth where you can see both horizon lines at sunset. I don’t believe him. We also meet this bizarre older woman who lives in Mexico City but had to leave her house for some reason she won’t explain. She starts sitting too close to me and asks for my email because she’s always wanted to come to New York. Her presence is not unwelcome but untrusted.

Humberto agrees to come to Preteen Gallery with me for their show London’s Calling And They’re Calling You Gay. We get off the train at San Cosme and wander around, passing old theaters and vine covered walls. This neighborhood, San Rafael, was the old opera district. I think of my mother the opera singer, she would think this place dirty. This neighborhood becomes my favorite.

We arrive at a stacked white building with an atrium in the center. The door is locked, so we knock. No answer. After a few moments a gentleman cracks open the door. “Lo siento...No estoy abierto…” We enter back into the night and express mutual interest in going out. Back at the hostel we meet up with some of Humberto’s friends. Humberto puts on a black neoprene wetsuit for the evening. I change into a black dress with a leather jacket that I sewed a Virgin de Guadalupe sequin patch on the back. We start drinking tall boys and smoking cigarettes inside. We take a cab to a different neighborhood and immediately get some tequila shots. A nice couple takes an interest and buys two beers for us. We talk about tequila and the weather and then make our way upstairs to the live cumbia. Humberto is a far better dancer than I am, but he’s not wearing creepers. Humberto unzips his neoprene wetsuit and wears it as pants with my leather jacket. We dance until our friends become bored and go outside for a cigarette. I buy a hotdog.

Two new friends have been added, Juan and Francisco, locals with a good sense of humor. We head down the block to a karaoke bar. I immediately head for the stage and sing two Selena songs which were a real hit in my mind. A light skin girl and her friends take notice of us and begin shooting dirty looks while bringing the owner onto her side. The music cuts and we’re sitting in silence in the white marble bar. The light skin girl drunkenly lost her cellphone and demands everyone help her look. We exit annoyed and decide to go home. On the sidewalk outside the bar people suddenly are yelling. The light skin girl accused Juan and Francisco of stealing her cellphone and her friends start to fight them and Humberto. My biggest concern is my jacket and Virgin de Guadalupe patch. The group of fists starts moving towards me and I yell at them and shove off these idiots attacking my friends. Humberto pushes me aside and tells me to stay out of it. I continue yelling from the sidelines, adrenaline running and I start searching for this female who caused so much trouble. She’s nowhere to be found and the cops show up to our block. We are told to go home, so we pile into a cab laughing and yelling about this fool who started a fight over a cellphone. Juan and Francisco tell me it started because they are dark skinned, and this happens a lot in Mexico. That light skinned girl had it out for them as soon as we walked into her club.  

The night feels over and I’m ready to get into my bottom bunk. Humberto tries to convince me to sleep in his bed and I politely decline. My whole room is asleep and I see that the woman from earlier is sleeping in my top bunk. Nervous and drunk I pile my purse under my pillow and put on every article of clothing I have for security. My baby suit is filled out. I see her open one eye in her sleep and I feel like she might cut my hair off while I am asleep. I crawl into my bed, her foot drops in front of me. She swivels her ankle in smooth rounds, beckoning me to interlace my fingers with her toes. I can hear her body writhe up above me and soft moans become audible. Her sheets sound like paper. It must be my time to die, perhaps this is what that bird meant all along. I fall asleep.