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made of bone & ink & dirty love

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Hey, hi. Not many people around here anymore, but I've updated my profile and I think I might start posting here again, from time to time. I'm not promising regular posts or anything, and I'll still probably post more on Tumblr, but I miss having a place to let certain things out that I don't want just everyone seeing. So there you go.
shouting into the void
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It's autumn. I'm working on an epic journal entry, which I will post here. Things are crazy, what with being pregnant and trying to move back across the country. What the fuck is wrong with me? I guess being pregnant didn't make me any less restless - not that I really thought it would. It all feels impossible some days, but most of the time I'm just really excited.

Did I mention that it's autumn?

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I took to calling the summer of 2009 "The Last Summer Ever," in reference to the fact that it would be my last summer in the midwest before I moved to California. I think I jinxed myself by calling it that, because then the summer of 2010 hardly felt like any kind of summer at all. I didn't name it, but looking back on it, it could aptly be referred to as "The Summer of Epic Fail" or something along those lines. After Patrick and I returned from our wedding and honeymoon, the rest of the summer was, with a few rare exceptions, full of nothing but shit. I hadn't seen a worse summer since 2005, and even that summer wasn't as bad as last year was. At first, I thought maybe it was because I spent the bulk of my time working a job that drained my will to live, or because I was pretty broke the whole summer, but it had to have been something more than that. After all, I've had plenty of other summers where I've been hella broke, or had a shitty job, or both, and still managed to enjoy them greatly. So, though those two things probably contributed to the overall shittiness of last summer, there was more to it than that.

I still don't know what it was, and it doesn't really matter. All I know is that I'm not letting this summer go to waste. I am calling it "Constructive Summer," and it is going to be fucking awesome. Being pregnant is not going to keep me from my summertime goals, either. This summer, there will be trainyard exploration, swimming, spending time with friends. There will be root beer and diner food and late nights and stick&poke tattoos. When I'm in the midwest, I will spend time in Milwaukee and Kenosha and Chicago, and I will walk by the lake and I will hunt for the Nelson Algren mural in Oak Park. When I'm in Oakland, I will take advantage of the rest of my time here by exploring my favorite parts of the Bay Area; and also there is a talk of a trip to L.A., and a trip north to visit the Black Butte Center for Railroad Culture. And this will be a creative summer - I will write a lot, play a lot of music, and get back into drawing.

Damn it, we're gonna build something this summer.

(Also - I just finished a new zine. All the pertinent information can be found here.)
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I can't keep it to myself any longer. I was trying to wait until after I got back from the doctor next week, but fuck it.

So. Turns out there was a perfectly logical explanation for the extreme breast tenderness I was (and still am) feeling. Here's what else - I'm exhausted all the time, I'm hungry all the time, I get easily nauseous, I eat a lot of saltines, I've quit drinking and I'm down to only smoking one cigarette a day. (And no, I'm not suddenly going straight edge.) Can you guess?

I'm pregnant.

And for the first time ever in my life, I'm ready for it, and I am not trying to figure out how to get rid of the zygote. In fact, I am doing everything possible to ensure that it's healthy.

I'm going to be a mom!

This is wild, and a little scary, but I am very happy about it.

I have my first prenatal check-up on Wednesday, just to make sure everything's a-okay. So far, it seems to be, but of course I'll keep you all updated.
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I am so sad and so restless, all the time.

It is exhausting.


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Once upon a time there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. And they grew next to each other. And every day the straight tree would look at the crooked tree and he would say, “You’re crooked. You’ve always been crooked and you’ll continue to be crooked. But look at me! Look at me!” said the straight tree. He said, “I’m tall and I’m straight.” And then one day the lumberjacks came into the forest and looked around, and the manager in charge said, “Cut all the straight trees.” And that crooked tree is still there to this day, growing strong and growing strange.
-Kneller (Tom Waits), from Wristcutters
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Oh, you know, whatever.

I'm just here to say the same thing I say almost every time I post in this damn thing - I have so much to tell you, but now is not the time. I am working on a new zine; the one I completed back in September I feel was half-assed cos I was scared. I'm not as scared, anymore, which is good. I'm planning on having it done before I go back to the midwest in April.

And there are so many things to look forward to.

Things are getting better. There are still some very hard things right now, but, in a way I can't quite describe - 2011 just feels better than 2010 did. And, if Chinese Astrology is your thing - I am definitely liking The Year of the Hare better than The Year of the Tiger.


Jesca Hoop - "Hunting My Dress"
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Get on track to move away from the Bay Area, hopefully by the end of this year or the early part of next. While I'm still in the Bay Area, fully enjoy and explore everything it has to offer. Talk to strangers. Get involved with FUSF. Maybe even teach a class there, about Zines as Literature. Write more zines than I did last year. Figure out how to charge enough for my zines so that I can afford to print them and mail them out in a timely fashion. Resurrect my litzine. Get my publishing company going – I've only been talking about it for seven years, now! Write something every day, without worrying about how 'good' it is. Seriously, write something every day, even if I don't feel like it, even if it's small, even if no one else ever sees it. Get more of my writing published. Resurrect my podcast. Record my spoken word album. Start doing live spoken word performances, again. Play more music. Get better at accordion, and fiddle, and ukulele. Get more tattoos. Catch up with my correspondence, and keep up with it. Make my own pickles. Visit L.A. Plan and throw that brilliant May Day house show my bandmates and I are talking about. Heavily promote One Beer Prophet and Oakland Wine Drinkers Union. Play a lot of gigs with OWDU, and as One Beer Prophet. Attend that quit-smoking support group. While I do still smoke, savor every drag. Go to therapy, and stop feeling like I'm fucking weak just by admitting I need mental health help. Take longer bike rides. Start doing burlesque again. Start nude/pin-up modeling again. Do what I need to do to get into the 2012 Accordion Babes calendar. Find places to DJ in a live setting, and do it. Appreciate the good things about each day, even if they're small or hard to find. Tell everyone I love how much I appreciate them, more often. Go to Hallowmas. Plan for the future, but live in the moment. Spend less time on the Internet, but make the time I do spend on it count more – i.e., posting important things, making real connections with people, etc. Watch more movies. Go to more shows. Take more photographs. Do more visual art – pen & ink drawing, charcoal drawing, watercolor painting, collage, they all make me happy, so who the fuck cares if it's 'good' or not? Brush up on my French. Learn at least basic Spanish. Learn German. Travel as much as fucking possible. Hop trains. Do some stencil and/or wheatpaste art. Look good whilst fucking shit up. Dance. Laugh. Decide if I'm going to grad school or not. Figure out good places for busking in the Bay Area, and do it. Talk to Lissa more often. Talk to my honey about things that are bothering me right away, in a calm and rational fashion, rather than keeping them inside 'til they build up into something huge & ugly & come out the side of my neck. Do more crafts. Save money. Climb trees. Play dress-up. Smoke more weed. If I feel shitty, allow myself to feel shitty, and don't beat myself up with that whole "you have no reason to feel bad, so many people have it so much worse than you" thing. If I feel good, allow myself to feel good, and don't beat myself up with that whole "you don't deserve to feel good when so many people don't" thing. Do yoga. Meditate. Make my own essential oil-based perfumes. Sell or give away shit I don't really need or want. Write that fucking goddamn screenplay I've been tossing around for five+ years. Work on that fucking goddamn graphic novel I've been tossing around for six+ years. Do more collaborative work with other people. Plan (and do) the Salty Squeezebox Tour with Emchy, for real this time. Make sure I get to Michigan for Thanksgiving this year - I miss my family. Keep myself open to all the possibilities. And, to borrow from Woody Guthrie – Love everyone. Make up my mind. Wake up and fight.
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277K 1:37
“When the evening churchbells ding out a sorrowful cant
from the belfry of Saint Boniface
and the evening commuters <i>ssshhh</i> by in their sleek cars,
rushing to return to shinier neighborhoods,
the Tenderloin drunkards clutch their greasy bags
tighter to their tender hearts
and the angel of the winos appears
The angel of the winos shuffles up the sidewalk
with his ragged wings folded neat beneath
a jacket stained with blood and ashes
the pockets of his baggy pants spilling over
with small change;
he looks shrunken, hunched, old
When he stands before his inebriated congregation
his besotted true believers
he draws himself up to his full and terrible height
and blocks out the buildings and the
remaining orange washes of sunlight
And the tattered men with their shopping carts
and scribbled signs and trembling hands
stare up, rapt -
even as the police sirens <i>whoop-whoop</i>
and shopkeepers tend to their displays
of fruit -
only the unsober can see him, y’see
And he speaks in a voice like steam
from a sewer grate,
like train wheels on a broken track,
like all the dreams you lost
that you’ll never get back
And he says -
<i>Tonight, my boys, the tarnished coins
and crumpled bills placed in your outstretched
palms will be plentiful
the Night Train, the Thunderbird, the
Wild Irish Rose will flow free
the rain will hold off another day
the beat cops will stay outta your way
and in the morning, there will be
no hangovers, and no DTs</i>
Then he blesses them all with a
grape-scented kiss to their foreheads
and he shuffles away in the falling
dark, to his cardboard and paper home
in Golden Gate Park”

Transcribed by: onefastmove
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I am overflowing with good energy. A bit of the old magic has come back, and in a peaceful, non-self-destructive way, this time.

Oh, thank the gods.

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