Ghost train?

A weekend in photos.

if you've come to New York lookin' for love
you've come to the wrong place
or better yet
you've come for the wrong reason
and
if you've come to New York lookin' for sex
you've come to the right place
and maybe the right reason
but
if you've come to New York lookin' for destruction
you've hit the fucking jackpot
and we should share a whiskey on riv
with my tits hangin' out
a million former sweethearts
givin' the world the finger on the right
smokin' a cig on the left
alls i'm sayin is
so what?

a sickness with no cure

You make me sick
And I don’t mean it like one of those catty lines
Written for a daytime soap
Where the woman’s like
“You make me sick!”
To her man
(Because he cheated on her with her sister’s best friend’s cousin’s blind best friend
Or something
And she means to affront his character)
No, not like that
I mean it quite literally.
It’s like there’s this pocket in my brain reserved for pieces of information labeled “______”
Usually I keep it closed tight like a rope walker
But sometimes I flail and fail
And I gorge myself on memories and false hopes and crooked smiles that I
Long ago stashed in said pocket
Like
When I was little I used to sneak into the kitchen after my mom made a cake
And I would just stand there eating it with a fork out of the cake-holder-thingy
Shamelessly, until I was like buhhhhhh that was a bad decision
That’s what I do, in my brain, with you
And sometimes it’s not my fault!
Sometimes I’m walking down Houston and a man walks by
Wearing your exact cologne, I know it, the fucker
And I get a big whiff  
And suddenly I’m back to you
And the gorging begins
And then the fog starts to creep
And that’s not some poetic Frost-like analogy shit
It’s an actual fog in my brain
My eyes get blurry
My throat closes up
My hands get weak
I start to feel like I can’t breathe
My chest hurts.
I sit at dinner and feel like I can barely get down food
I try to talk and laugh, and I do, but I’m not really there, you know?
God, it’s so hard to describe
It’s like I’m super aware of my body
Every vein
Every palpitation
Every tweak, every leak
But $1000 later doctors tell me I’m fine
Bloodwork’s all normal
Well, next to normal
Sigh
You make me sick
Because there’s no antibody
For heartbreak

the last three letters in poetry are "try"

I never finished the book/I found it boring
 
It's kind of like that book Flatland
You know
You probably read it in college
I'm the 3D sphere
Descending from above
And you're the 2D (1D?) line guy
Yeah, I just compared myself to God
So what?
But, really, listen
I am thick and my lines are soft
I am mysterious
I am filled with unknown things
And before you met me
You didn't even have a concept of "filled"
Because you're the 2D (1D?)
I can't fucking remember
You're the line guy
Straight
Narrow
No curves, no mystery
You can't see things how I see them
You could barely see me
You thought I was a dot
Growing
Growing
Growing
I had to tell you what I was
But you could not understand
It's not your fault!
Don't feel bad
There were just no words in Flatland for
The dimensions that I brought
So when I told you I liked women,
You were all,
"What does 'like' mean?"
And I floated back into the sky
Now just a shrinking, shrinking dot
It's not your fault
Don't feel bad 
I don't

Kissing is important

Kissing is important

I would like to be kissed soon
Nothing more
Nothing less
Just kissed
On the mouth
Corners reaching for corners
Feeling a pair of eyes on me
Even though mine are closed
You can just feel that shit, you know?
Tongue tracing the lines of my book
Abdomen explosion
My heart is likely broken now
That’s what that was
Like in France they call orgasms tiny deaths,
But really I think the death starts with
That
First
Kiss
This musician told me once
“you gotta have imagination to be a good kisser”
Then he called me darlin'
oh
my
god
darlin
See what I mean?
Call me darlin' and
Christ, even the thought of it makes me curl up inside
Like a little baby girl
Hands on faces
Sweet little smiles come
Flirting with each other as they graze
Like cows in a field
Happy, worry-free
Just thinking about eating and chewing, you know?
Until the slaughter people arrive
I wonder if they know what’s coming
When they pile onto that truck
Clones and drones and bones and a sense of impending doom
Hm, not sure they’re that intelligent
What their brains are capable of
Brains behind foreheads as they touch
The metal of the fire escape presses into my ass
I’ll remember this shit I guess
Panties on the floor
Yeah
Kissing is important
Nothing more
Nothing less

I'm not a girl, not yet?

So while I've been not blogging, I've been working on a number of other artistic projects and/or enrichment activities. A couple of weekends ago Zac, Jenny and I spent basically the entire weekend filming things and taking/posing/directing a couple photo shoots. Jenny asked me (and a few other stupidly attractive people) to rub dark eye makeup and Vaseline on my face and act brooding and sexy and dark. Um, yes? Here are my results, and you can see all the rest on Jenny's blog.

When I first saw the shots, I thought, "Boo. I wanted to look edgier. Darker. Harder. Rougher." I thought I looked too soft for what Jenny was trying to accomplish; but the more I studied them and the more I thought about it, the more I loved them. They just look like me. I'm sort of going through a phase right now where I want to reject everything I used to be - soft, pretty, girly, sweet - in favor of some sort of badass rebel vibe that reflects all the hard shit I've been through in the past year. The photos show - and this is why Jenny is a brilliant photographer - that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much dark makeup I put on or how much grease I put in my hair, I will always be that sweet little Southern girl who just believes in the best in people and came to the city to do nothing but pursue her dream.

Looking at these photos, for the first time in my life I thought to myself that I looked like a woman. That I am a woman. Not a girl, a woman. I've officially accomplished some of my dreams and given birth to new ones. I've fallen in love and had my heart shattered. I've explored my own sexuality at new levels. I've made some stupid mistakes. I've learned a lot and forgotten a lot. I've loved my friends with all my heart. I've supported and been supported by my family. I'm still young and I'm by no means finished with any of these things, but I see the beginnings of them all when I look at Jen's photos. Oh, and I think I sort of look like a boy in that last shot, which I totally love.

And apparently, no matter how much punk rock I listen to, I will continue to quote Britney Spears songs and title my blog posts after them. Deal with it.

(everything but the)

Zac and I watched the PBS Andy Warhol documentary last night and I got up to get some water and when I looked down into my kitchen sink, it looked really pretty so I took a photo of it. Then I edited it with Photoshop and played around with it a little bit and here it is.

(spooning is more

fun

when you're

in

between

two

in 

love)

Can't read my, can't read my/she's got me like nobody

I am getting emotional. As in I am having an emotional moment. Today, Saturday, April 3, 2010, I got my first tattoo. It hurt like a MOTHERFUCKER and I yelped like a little pussy and I did not enjoy the process at all. However, now back at home, looking at my new arm art, listening to Gaga sing Pokerface at her piano - the acoustic version I first heard about a year ago - tears are welling up in my eyes when I remember why, back in September, I wrote about why I thought she would inspire my first tattoo. I wasn't sure then if I would go through with it or not - but the roughness the past year created in me has begun to flower into a celebration of who I am, and I feel more confident in that person than I ever have before. Gaga inspires me to be just who I am, unapologetically, and to explore parts of myself that I've always wanted to but have perhaps feared. Anyway. Before I get into all that, here's the tattoo experience.

I waffled for like 30 minutes before I went through with getting it. I have really sensitive skin, and I also have eczema, so I wasn't sure that it was the best decision. Once I made a decision - after saying something about it being an existential crisis and pulling out my favorite "no one can take a bath for you" spiel - she started inking me, and it only took like five minutes. An excruciating fucking five minutes. This is right after it was finished, all wrapped up, (with) a pretty little bow:

Finished art, unwrapped (with a cameo by my toothbrush):

I love it. It's cute, right? It's cute, but it means so much more to me than just that. Bullet lists are everyone's favorite, so here it is, unedited, what this tattoo means to me, who I am, right now.

- 2009 was the year of my first true heartbreak. Gaga was there with me, somehow, at every step along the way, and in my memories of that year, she always will be. It's not an exaggeration to say that by the end of last year, I was completely fucking destroyed. I've come a long way in the past few months, but I am not ashamed to say that I still miss Andrew and I still sometimes cry for his loss. I cut him out of my life because I had to, but it has not been easy.  A part of me still loves him. When I hear Brown Eyes, I think about him, and I probably always will. I'm OK with that. I learned the possibility of my emotional depth because of him, so ultimately I'm nothing but thankful.

- Gaga has always been pretty outspoken about her bisexual experiences. I have always had bisexual curiosity and tendencies, but I've just recently began to explore it. I don't really consider it fodder for this blog, but a world has opened up for me, and I have never felt more free or comfortable in my own sexuality.

- I am more free than I have ever been. I have stopped caring what others think of me, and I have taken to cutting and ripping my clothing however I see fit before I go out. I wear dark eyeliner and slick my short brown hair down with pomade. I wear glittery eyeshadow. I don't really consider something worth wearing unless I have somehow taken my hand to it or one of my friends has. Zachary sketched my tattoo for me. I never even knew what freedom was before this stage of my life, and now that I've tasted it I never want to go back. I can't even remember what I did before I made things or at least felt the drive and necessity to make them.

- I am more in love with New York than I ever have been, if that's even possible. This city continues to inspire me, envelop me, develop me and create new worlds for me. Literally everyday is an adventure, and I am surrounded by my dearest friends, who are actually my family, and I could not feel more blessed. Gaga represents New York for me, because that's where she got her start - she frequented St. Jerome's, which is my new favorite bar on the LES - and she just sort of embodies the grease, grit, dirt, harshness, and glamor of the city.

- Rivington Street

- I have recently discovered about myself that I truly feel like I'm meant to be an artist, and I think of myself as one, even though I am still really young and don't know quite what I want to do. I've been reading and learning about Patti Smith, Robert Mapplethorpe, Andy Warhol, and, yes, Lady Gaga, and what they did as young artists in New York.  I'm learning about myself through them. I am dabbling in poetry and songwriting, as well as trying to learn more about the art world in New York.

To that end, I recently transcribed onto my bedroom wall a poem Patti Smith wrote when she was 24, which is obviously how old I am now, about New York.

Here's video of her saying it aloud, back in 1971. I have no idea if she wrote it before the interview and was reading from memory, or if she wrote it on the spot. She was really into improvisation, so the latter would not surprise me.

Patti was born on December 30, 1946. I moved to New York on December 30, exactly 62 years later. I find this appropriate, because it took moving to New York for me to truly be born, and the process, I hope, has only begun.

Love and art and New York always,

Meghan