POSSIBILITY, PERFORMANCE, AND STAMPED MEANING

i wish that i felt better. i wish that my brother would talk to me more often. i wish that my birthday party goes well. i wish that me and my high school boyfriend could be friends again. i wish that the next time i go to trader joe's they have green onions and red cabbage and i wish that the next time i take the metro north the conductor doesn't check my ticket. i wish i had a narrow frame. i wish for world peace.

POSSIBILITY, PERFORMANCE, AND STAMPED MEANING

I have sat down and for hours tried to write to you again. I've read this over so many times its lost all meaning to me. I've written to other places, and thought to myself some fantastical thoughts, but I can't seem to talk to you, you, exactly, here and now. It has intimidated me.

My 21st birthday is coming up, today is a leap day, and soon it will be spring. Soon, I'll be done with my junior year of college. Soon, all the leaves outside my window will be back. Today I hear the birds call and I woke up hot from the sun baking me in my bed. Yesterday we walked back from class. We talked about the possibility of our professor being rich; she wore little scarves and took vacations with her sons, we knew she dropped them off in rich neighborhoods and gave out little hospitality gifts packed with 20 dollar lotions. We laughed and she said something about how when she was in high school she would steal them from the Union Square. We laughed and I said something about the idea of our professor stealing them from Union Square, and so we kept laughing. But in the back of my head I was picturing the entire class and how we must look. Are we sexy, cultured, cool girls who show up late and are known for Instagram poetry and fur lined boots or are we dead beat, stoner chicks who smell weird and are hard to talk to? I kept thinking this over, and thinking about how the girl who sits in front of me is either an annoying, try-hard or a sweet, over-achiever. She fits both in the same size. I watched the repetitions of her hand movements while she talked, how her long acrylic nails swiped the air and batted it around, how her shoes are clean and it could be because she's put together or because she never leaves the house. I was entranced by her batting, and when she spoke to me I looked at the floor. This is the reason, I tell myself, why no one likes me. Then, like some magical transformation, picture it like the Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde animation, the only way I can rationalize these series of thoughts, a slick clean thought pushes through and says, I do have friends. And then I say, they don't like me. And then I say, yes I do. Then I say, no, I don't like them. I don't like anyone. And then I say, yes I do. And I fight this back and forth until I'm reminded of the thought I had in the shower a night prior, where I thought- I'm afraid of these thoughts because they remind me too much of my ex girlfriend- and then a giant invisible hand, one that is entirely mine but I am some what detached from, slaps the back of my neck, and I stop thinking and go back to just walking.

I think I am too self obsessed. I am afraid of stopping this obsession because that is what makes good writers. I think about how she said my writing was esoteric. How she said my use of specific and relevant descriptions keeps the pace of my preaching tasteful. I'm thinking about how my professor said that non-fiction writers get no rest. They have to constantly be looking for things to write about. So this sort of turns me into a never-resting martyr, which makes me think of Media Studies and Madonnas and Venuses and storytelling devices building off the backs of each other, how everything is appropriated off of holy text and Hot Topic, how everything is glances down halls of mirrors, of alternating applications, and how I first saw this metaphor on Fairly Odd Parents when I would sit in front of the TV for hours unmoving. I sold all my clothes because I don't want to be a girl anymore. I can't wear the frilly little dresses I used to. Or maybe it's because I'm depressed. Her and I stood in the kitchen, and she is a pastor and I am troubled, and sometimes I wonder if I keep her around to stay saved (The big clean thought comes back - This is my friend I am talking about -), and she started asking me about being nonbinary and I boiled it down into not feeling at home with women or men or girls or boys and how I must exist on some bylines and as a product I am a Person of My Time.

I am a Person of My Time.

Which has produced a somewhat political movement based in the abolishment of arbitrary systems of identity. I cannot be a woman, I say. It doesn't make any sense.

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We watched cartoons last night and talked about the variety of cultural references baked into it. The staging of an American Noir that's reminiscent of French - Japanese animation, the British setting and Cyber Punk themes that the 2000's created Steampunk with - How there's no cellphones and it reminded me of 50's practical science fiction where they based universes on common knowledge of computing, where computers would be giant machines - See, the stereotype of computer calls happening on large monitors - But technology for small size computing wasn't recognized or achievable yet (I am explaining this now out of ego - I tried to explain this last night after ripping a bong on my couch and I was corrected that these characters did have cellphones and it came out in fucking 1999.) - (Have you not picked up yet? That this is all an ego project? Am I allowed to do so? I think about my mother, I think about what I say about women- I think about how on this same couch, while we all passed a joint to each other- Indulging in college luxury- He said he stopped smoking when he graduated- she said a couple nights ago she could never be a mother because she would hate her daughter for being younger, hotter, more beloved, more talented- and we all laughed and laughed but she was right, I saw her lean back in her chair and it reminded me of that scene in Being John Malkovich where the college kids just want to smoke weed and fuck each other in that guy's house - it reminded me of that Twitter line - "Guy who's only seen Boss Baby 'This reminds me a lot of Boss Baby'- But what about when I said I had seen raw iron ore on the computer playing Minecraft before seeing it in person? What would my professor have to say then about appropriated imagery? She sits on the couch and I think too, about how I would cannibalize my young, I think too about this reasonable justification, I wonder if this is natural or devolved ideation of Greek fantasy- I think too, about how in the shower I remembered what she said about Western ideology- about how we think we can get everything we want if we tried, and how in Japan- they accept the knowledge that sometimes choice is bad- and at restaurants you can't order sugar in your tea even though they could give it to you- The plight of the tourist- You just can't understand why they won't let you have sugar in your tea-

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He told her he lost interested when she said she was a lesbian. I told her that it didn't make sense to me. She said why would he maintain interest if she was a lesbian. I didn't say anything but I told her it made sense to me. She wants to make sure he could still be interested. It's a matter of pride.

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These next excerpts are scrapped parts from failed entries rearranged and edited. I understand a part of putting out work is putting out bad work. I watched him make a movie in a day. It wasn't that good but we were proud of him:

i spent all day going up and down the stairs.

 "today feels like a holiday."

i had decided and told HIM. he told me it didn't. he told me just got back from the office and wanted to relax. everyone busy around me, i took it upon myself to stretch out and over the stairs, climbing a few steps up and grabbing the railing so i could bend backwards, letting my hair hang down so it licked the backs of my pant legs, before getting bored and tired, and climbing up the rest of the steps normally.

i did it for myself, and for anyone watching, for both of those have the same degree of priority. "i am community oriented." i would say that. because it makes me and anyone listening feel better about it.

it's a leap year and my neighbors are moving out of their apartment. it is the first day approaching spring where you can go outside without a coat on.

i found an old diary where i wrote about a fight with my ex girlfriend from a couple of years ago. something funny, was that she never really understood my nervousness around other people. i found written out, "it's like how you won't wear a crop top to the liquor store!" i think i remember telling her this, and she told me they weren't alike. 

today i woke up feeling good. today i woke up and got my period and finished the last of the soup in the refrigerator that's made it hard to fit the milk and the hot sauce on the same shelf so i got to sit on the ground and rearrange it. i called my grandpa and wished him a happy birthday. the bank called my dad because it thought me trying to get a new york times subscription was counterfeit. my dad called me to let me know that my mom's new job led to her knees falling apart and she's going to get more surgery. i came back from putting my laundry in the wash that i've been neglecting and found out my neighbor's ceiling caved in. i saw my ex girlfriend's new girlfriend out my window. and writing this all out made me start to cry. so i cried and cried and cried. and i made a cup of coffee and asked HIM if he could help me made invitations for my birthday party.

today i woke up early because i spent all of my money and i don't have anything to prove from it except for a new tattoo and a couple packages in the mail and the memories of things that taste sweet, substantiated by train tickets, and pictures of backs of people's heads in various places. waking up early let me take videos of me dancing around in clothes that i don't want anymore, so someone would buy them off me. i posted these videos and people bartered with me for them, and then i watched a video of a guy lighting himself on fire outside an embassy. and then watched the video of me dancing around again. and then the video of the guy on fire. and i put them next to each other and watched them back to back over and over again.

i went downstairs to watch everyone move stuff out from under the collapsed ceiling and into a new apartment. i shared a cigarette with the girl down the street and we talked about the ceiling and the ongoing war with the same level of importance. but the sun was shining so bright and we passed the cigarette back and forth and our cadences sounded like birdsong and so i was talking but i was also listening to the rhythm in our banter and feeling the hot sun and letting the sweetness stick to me. but when you get too sugary you get sick. i thought about susan sontag [Within the editing of this article, I had removed all names. I want to leave the impression that anyone can be anything- but this reference to Susan Sontag depends on the context of her character, unlike the rest of this drafted work.] and how maybe my love for pretty things is turning me into a secret fascist. and i juggled this thought until my hands made it too hot and it slipped out from under me and i walked away without it.

when you date a want-to-be rockstar they introduce you to a lot of their same kind. a lot of my friends want to be famous, or famous to the right people. SHE said something about it. so did HE. it makes me nervous. i play with the hem of my sleeve and tell HER i just have to work harder. i want to work harder so there's not even a possibility that they think i'm hanging around just to be famous. i know that they know that i don't really care about that stuff but the possibility that they could think that's how i think makes me nervous and i want to prove it to myself. i am not confident enough in myself and i am always open to the idea that these people will one day stand up and walk away from me. so even if i know that they won't, there's the possibility. and i want to work harder so there's not even a possibility of it making me upset if they act on this possibility because of the possibility of me just being someone who is hanging around. SHE tells me we are friends. HE tells me he misses me. i still feel nervous but i can't tell what for. i wonder that if i never dated her, that these people wouldn't talk to me. i rip the edges off this thought until it becomes too thin and can't be ripped any further.

i've been talking a lot about my grandpa's car and how he can't see anymore. //working hard in the arts but seeing the suffering around me so taking a vow of silence// This part of the draft was unfinished because I hated this entire piece of writing so much. I'll finish it here.

My grandpa is losing his sight. It is not an ambiguous "him", it is my grandpa, like a roommate, parent, or professor, he fulfills this role. But my grandpa can also be HE. HE is my grandpa. Like many grandpas of this world. His name is HE. His name is HE. He is my grandpa. HE is my grandpa. My grandpa's name is HE. Do you understand?

on thanksgiving i learned my grandpa only sees sideways. he has a cherry red jeep i get to drive in the summers. i want it so bad. i know if he can't see he can't drive so i'm waiting for him to give it to me. it makes me nauseous to think about the day i will get that jeep. the day my grandpa won't be able to drive anymore.

i get everything i want and when i get it it makes me sick. i spent all winter saving up the checks my dad sends me for groceries until i had a nice sum of cash to spend on a tattoo. but first i blew through the money on things i know my dad would want me to get, like new clothes and perfumes, before i spent the very last of it on a tattoo, the thing i wanted the entire time. 

i wrote a poem a while ago about nirvana being a dark corner with loving touch. i've referenced it a couple times to you, but it always comes back to this idea. i spent all winter at the gym to now be angry at the idea that i might have wasted my time, when i could have been writing or drawing or volunteering for the poor, all things i have done before and had subsequently given up on in search of other things. i skipped class to write to you. 

i think about when i was on the subway - there's something that still strokes my ego about taking the subway, how i feel special for being the girl books told me about - and i looked at the homeless man sleeping and i texted my friend "I just saw a homeless guy & in my head I thought “I command 10,000 angels to look after u” just bc i love 2 think & i was like If I made art abt that People would think i was schizophrenic,"and she said i should make art about it anyway but i know i should have just given him $20 but i was saving that $20 to get a new tattoo.

i sometimes go on a date with a man because i wanted to test the possibility that i could. that men could still possibly want me. i hate admitting that i feel beautiful when other people tell me i do. i just want to be told i am beautiful. i know that i am. i need to be told. i have been downsizing my closet. i have too many things. i wanted to have everything and i got everything and i want nothing and so i have to have nothing. i start debating the logistics of the frilly dresses in my closet. if it's something i want only one day out of the month do i still want it? i could annihilate these questions of want by not having them at all. or not caring and keeping them and wearing these clothes until they fall off my body. these days i want little shined school shoes and fitted sweaters that'll make me look smart. i wanted a bunch of frilly dresses and i got them and i don't want them anymore. i want to look smart. i am smart, but i want to wear the neat sweaters and clean shoes that'll show everyone that i am. it's like how she didn't want to wear the crop top to the liquor store. 

i haven't been working i have been lying down and thinking until i'm slick in the hotness of my own imagination. the kind of hot that has things fall off the walls. the kind of hot that makes the pores open and everything inside steam out. i watched a video from a clown school that said two clowns are less scary than one clown. i saw a man lick his lips and it made me think about licking your lips because they're dry or because you want someone to see you lick them. i daydreamed back on the impression a thought had left on me that was now forgotten, like reeling in the feeling of waking from a distant dream, while i scrolled past a video of raw cream. i thought about these roads around me and how the first time i drove down them was leaving her house and now they're for driving HIM to the airport. but these are just roads. it makes me understand casual dating. it makes me understand the severity of my affliction.

when you love someone the world falls into their pocket. the blue sky is the blue sky over the both of us. the dirt is the dirt we walked on together. when you love someone really hard everything is written over whether you like it or not. it'll be stuck like that for a while. love has me hearing the tones of her laugh through the song of passing cars and doors opening. everyday i pass the art museum she said she would take me to that we never ended up going to. even if the person you loved was mean to you you still think about them. and it isn't romantic, it's just love. 

i look on reddit to see if this is normal. it has been a long while and the love should have shed off me by now. it hasn't. i am taking it upon myself to be open about it. i watched someone else say it, some chick on campus made some good art about it, so now i do. 

this examination is either obsessive or thorough. i think i have a lot left to learn. i learn by reading between the lines. in media studies class we talked about star trek super fans extrapolating meaning from the original media to create fan fiction that exists in universe and off camera.

i folded up the dress i wore last april when i called her from the duck pond back in buffalo when we decided for the 4th or so time we wanted to get back together, and how any time i thought of her i would call her. i'd tell her about songs on the radio or how i wanted to fix my hair. when we got back together that 4th time she told me she never thought about me when i was gone. so now i don't call her even though i want to. i spent a lot of time thinking about the possibility of things making her think of me. i would sing certain songs in her kitchen in hopes that she'd hear them again and think of me. i wanted to stick around a little longer, or i wanted the pain of remembrance to be equalized, to force a memory. the dress is frumpy and doesn't look good on me, but i think about maybe hemming the sleeves or trying it on over jeans but then i just packed in back into a grocery bag. i filmed myself dancing around in it and i'm waiting for someone to buy it.

when HER and i hung out for the first time six months ago, right after i got broken up with, i bought a striped sweater that was too expensive, but i bought it because i didn't want to forget how it felt to start moving again. i wanted to look at it and think about my rebirth. a month later SHE asked if she could borrow it and i told her no because i was worried about it getting stained. but last weekend HE and i traded clothes. he spilled red wine down the front of it and it didn't bother me like i thought it would. i was more excited to trade clothes with someone, i had never done that before. i looked at myself in his skin. he taught me how to use his belt. i watched him dance around in my dress. 

i accepted the stain in the sweater, but when i went to wash it, it came out clean.

i wait to hear the sound of my neighbors chatting through the walls or hear their feet climbing the stairs, but they moved down the block and won't be there. this morning i heard a group of girls walking outside, and for a second, thought it was the boys play fighting in their bathroom that once sat next to mine. 

HE watched me come back from the laundry room after i put my clothes in the dryer, coming out by climbing through the window, hopping onto the sill and jumping down to the concrete. "i'm not doing it for attention, it's just quicker this way," i said. "sure," he said back to me. and so i told him that he hated me and i started climbing up the stairs. and he asked if he could come over to make invitations for my birthday party. i told him that he could. 

I am done with that now.

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When I was 18 I said on my 19th birthday I would publish a book of poetry. I am coming up on my 21st, and all I want is a mud wrestling party, where I can look moderately sexy and have everyone beat the shit out of me. I don't know if it would be better if I was sober or really fucked up. I'll think about it. But it'll be really fun. I'll scream and laugh and love the attention. I spent all winter trying to get stronger. I don't get winded running for the bus anymore. I want attention. I want everyone to beat the shit out of me. I want people in the back of their heads to think I look good. I want to allow this opportunity. I want to feel beautiful. I want that belief cemented.

Birds have been singing out my window. I have been thinking about when I was a hostess a few summers ago, where I spent all summer watching the birds from the bar, thinking about how mothers drop their young, how the birds on the border can fly to Canada and back, and how I was spending all summer saving up to bring my ex girlfriend to Toronto. Birds are the most beautiful metaphor. How I would like to write a memoir to be a bird. I would like to be a bird to someone.