At semi-regular intervals, she spoke to save her life, or something like it.
Saturday, April 27, 2002
With my cat slumbering noisily in my lap and waking at odd intervals to nuzzle and drool into my armpit, I write in a post vodka-addled haze. We went to Bats last night, aka Release the Bats *said with a kind of maniacal booming voice*.
They played a Birthday song and that was basically the high point of the evening, music-wise, though they also played the Chameleons, which was a good thing. Whenever I hear The Birthday Party, I think of my friend Drucilla Blood. (I have to figure out how to link to other sites and Blogs. I mean, easier than going and coding in the template.) She made me all these tapes of Nick Cave and The Birthday Party, among others, when we were in high school. She's this amazing writer and inspiring Mom, too.
But as a side note, this student of mine went to the Ukraine on business (don't ask me, 'cause I don't know) and brought me back a pirated CD set of all of Nick Cave's recordings, including The Birthday Party. Plus the disc has lyric sheets and pictures, and their all packaged with Cyrillic writing, which makes it so incredibly cool.
Ok, back to last night. You don't want to know what I was wearing last night. It's always unimaginative. But M, however, always looks amazing. Yesterday he found this HUGH necklace with a wild cat's head formed with nacreous shells. So he wore that with his lurex sweater, velvet pants, blue eyeshadow and clove lipsitck. *Be still my heart*.
I always feel like a big faker when I go to goth clubs, basically because I'm unwilling to wear platforms or shave my eyebrows, though I can admire that look. There's no other place in Southern California where you can go to a night club and see all women of different shapes and sizes, wearing these amazing gowns, looking like wicked queens. Though I could do without the whole plastic skull element, it can be inspiring aethetic-wise. For instance, there's my friend Joey Cadaver, who showed up wearing this lace cocktail dress from the '30's, the same dress he was wearing when I first met him, except now it's even less of a dress, just shreds webbed about his pretty body. And then he had this skirt he made with things hanging off it-- er, um, taxidermy parts; for instance some crabbled claw he dutifully stuck in my cleavage. The flirt. And he was also wearing his bottle-green lace-up stilleto boots-- the kind of shoes you can only wear after a few drinks to null the pain. And there was, of course, Butcher Baby who whas wearing some rayon kimono type robe and a hernia corset culled from ebay and dyed red to match. And there were a group of rubenesque girls in the pool room who were wearing '80's goth-- big poet shirts, gauzy dresses, etc, their makeup so perfect they looked like dolls.
The reason I show up there month after month, besides cataloguing the outfits everybody's in, is to get this feeling of gleeful doom, that same feeling I get when reading a William Gibson novel. It's when the music and the people standing around or dancing in their spellbound, pretentious way, all conspire to bring about the end of present time and begin to usher in some other, altered time. I guess that's why everybody goes to clubs. Either that or to get laid. But, alas, that altered time thing didn't happen last night. Maybe next month.
Woke from a benedryl dream some measurable panic. I'd been trying to get back to my house, which looked like the ramshackle trailer I lived in as an undergrad, the same one that should have been condemned. But somehow the place had been barricaded in the dream and those inside were quarintined, or curfewed. This very tall man in dreads and elaborate armor, an R & B recording star of some sort, had decided to help me, but first he had to get dressed. He tried on costume after costume and I waited for him. A crocodile skin great coat, pewter leather jumpsuit, etc, and others I can't remember. The whole time I'm in a panic, wondering when I'll get home, or if I ever will. Everyone around me seemed fine. We were in some place that looked like the french quarter in New Orleans. They were actually having patio parties, drinking wine, unworried and even slightly bemused by my hysteria. How I despised them!
No doubt dreams like these (and also the sub-dream of that one, at a sushi place run by a Tony Orlando & Dawn type trio, with rabbits running about on the table. M complains to a buxom bleached blonde waitress that people give him a hard time about being too thin and then she crawls over me to sit in his lap and bury his face in her ample chest) had to do with a)the benedryl mentioned earlier b)Israel's invasion of Palestine and c)trying to teach research to the Unwillings.
In the lab last night, one student could not use a browser and I tried to help. Later, she kept clicking on a dead link over and over, getting a 404 error, saying that the thing was "broken". I was trying to show them how to determine the academic relevance of certain sites. I have the big projector going-- I just love seeing web sites blown up large-- and was taking them through this assesment process. The whole time I just felt like this big faker, since what I love about the internet is it defies this assessment-- it's such a wild public space, and there's so much stealing and re-contextualizing going on. But they don't care-- and the few that do are bored. As I tell the class about search engines and what a Universal Resource Locator is, the Flash designer in the corner, God love him, is cracking jokes and surfing up a storm with his bud, whose also brilliant and e-savy. I'm worried they may bring up some porn. And that I'll actually want to look at it. See how impossible?
And now it's getting harder to write as my cat, Lemmy, is falling asleep on me. Lemmy is named after the lead singer of Motorhead. M picked the name. I like to say he's named after Lemmy's endearing mole, though. When he was a kitten he would curl up in the nook of my collar bone. In fact, that's exactly what he did when I found him at the shelter-- curled up there and fell asleep. Now he's not a kitten anymore, but he loves to climb up my chest and bury his head in my armpit, usually when I'm trying to get something done on the computer. But he's got that snuffly pur that I just can't resist.
At the promptings of Lainie, aka Drucilla Blood, I'm at the blog again.
No political rants today, but it's probably time for a hair update. I've taken the braids out about a month ago, but haven't combed it since. There's comfort in being a mess, really. I'm going back to some aesthetic I worked in the very early nineties, and somehow it's making sense. How nice to be free of all the hair potions and hot objects. I can't really say it's dreading, more like large matted clumps. I look like the human who's supposed to mate with Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. It's OK, I'll just wear it "up" to teach. It's tough being an authority figure. It'd be much better to be an action figure (fully posable, please).
I've been reading through the journal I wrote when I was 13, in prep for the 1983 issue of Die Cast Garden. The self-hatred there kind of bowled me over. I hope it's easier now for girls, but somehow I think it's not. I mean, with the Britney Spears belly-baring phenomenon and all that. It's amazing we navigate the contradictions of girl/womanhood and somehow come out whole. Or at least not completely fragmented.
Speaking of tough girl-breaks, I'm reading Nabokov's Lolita. It's insanely good. "You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style." Deliciously troubling, I'd say-- inordinately weird, as all good things are. I remember about ten years ago I couldn't get through it, it freaked me out. I didn't see the sass in Dolores. I was fixated on the rape and exploitation. But then, I was dealing with the whole thing of being stalked by and older man, so there you go.
I'm selling my clothes on ebay because I need money. Teaching part time at the Junior College doesn't do much, so I've become an e-peddler. Things I've worn are disseminating themselves across North America, to places with names like Coeur d' Alene and Flower Mound. (That's Hot. I want to live in Flower Mound).
Now I've got to turn my students on to the joy of research. And it is a joy, but try getting them to believe it. *Sigh* At least I have a few good students this semester who are inspired. They are the ones you teach for-- they're the ones who keep you going. I'm just greedy and for once would like a class, if not full of real students, at least half-full.
Did I mention I need to get away from the sun? The pressure to "feel good" is a bit relentless.