reading:
Sue Grafton
I is for Innocent

listening:
1st born second, Bilal

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Friday 22 March 2002

the previous month, going backwards

Long Island City sunset

thirteen I went to work today and found out that one of my shifts has been cut. The store's been having financial problems. Sales have been nonexistant since September 11th. Much shit is going down. I don't really know how I'm going to live on 7 hours of pay a week. Not like 15 hours was much better, though. It doesn't look likely that I'm going to be able to work there during the summer, either. Which means that in mid-May I will be in same position that I was last year: looking for a job.

twelve This afternoon before work, I went to a lecture by Jeffery Mongrain. He's the head of the ceramics department at Hunter College in NYC, and after talking to him briefly about the facility and program (he kindly offered me a tour of the school whenever I was in town), I think it's moved up to the number one position for possible grad schools. The price (it's a city university), the location (a mere 3 subway stops away from John, how convenient!) and the program (an emphasis in mixed media and taught by the entire faculty) is ideal. I felt wildly excited about my future for the first time in what seems like years.

eleven The show for my bookmaking class goes up on Monday, and the jurying for the school-wide student show is on Wednesday. I really gotta get my shit together, and fast.

ten We had advising on Wednesday for next semester. I don't know what the fuck I'm taking. I've been rather distracted lately. Tossing around options, possibly Kiln-Formed glass, Plastics with Daniella (someone please stop me now, okay?), or Figure Modeling (which I assume is a figure drawing class).

nine I'm going to a therapist now. Her name is JoAnn. Therapy is not as dramatic as I had expected (or hoped). Right now our modus operandi seems to be me rambling myself into tangents, her usually nodding in agreement and asking the occasional choice question. I feel like I'm coming to a lot of conclusions all by myself, and just spitting them back at her, but I don't care. As long as I get there, I don't care how I get there. He saw my complications and he mirrored me back simplified and we laughed how our perfection would always be denied

eight I went twice more to the extremely unhelpful psychiatrist. He did little more than to further antagonize me, misspell and mispronounce my name again, and change my medication to Prozac. Since then I seem to be sleeping marginally better.

seven The sleep factor was not helped by the fact that, upon returning home from Kansas City, I flopped down on my bed, completely exhausted, only to wake up three hours later to find it completely deflated. I sleep on an air mattress, and it refused to reinflate, so I have been exiled to the floor for the last week or so. I am so not happy about this. I treasure my sleep. It's like a drug.

six I went to NCECA (National Council on Education for the Ceramic Arts) over my spring break. It was held in Kansas City, and due to some enormously complicated mishaps and misunderstandings which I won't bore you with, I ended up being the only person from Tyler going. So, I flew from Philly to Kansas City all by my little self, and I was okay. By a stroke of luck and chance, I found my friend Rachelle from PGSA the first day I was there, and we hung out, went to lectures and panels and galleries together and drank expensive cocktails at the revolving restaurant on the top of the Hyatt, forty stories up. I learned to get used to being the Central time zone. Despite the fact that I had no KC Masterpiece whilst in KC, I ate well and slept particularly well on the luxorious, plush, king size bed in my hotel room. This made returning home to a deflated hunk of plastic even more disheartening.

five The day before I left for Kansas City, I went back to Centralia. Just for a day, to check up on the place. I took my mom this time and I took some more pictures. I'm beginning to see how the seed that was planted in me two years ago is starting to grow into an idea, some way I can use this in my work and pay some sort of homage to the memory of the town and the people who lived there. Mom and I spent a lot more time in the three cemetaries near the garbage dump. Updates to the site coming soon, I hope.

four I got a partial scholarship to Haystack Mountain School of Crafts. Basically it's this fabulous little utopia in Deer Isle, Maine where I am going to go for two weeks and study and generally be blissed out on fine food and gobs of artistic inspiration. Or so I am told by those who have went. I just have to scrape together $500 between now and mid-August.

three I submitted my application for Governor's School. I have my interview on April 13. Kate told me recently that she's not really going be there, at least not for the whole thing, which I am extremely extremely bummed about. Kate's journal is currently the only thing taking up residence at my other domain, at elevate.west-end.net. Go check it out.

two I have occasionally thought about this site, even given the URL to one my friends at school (hi Diana), but not updated it til now, even though I have suffered occasional fits of guilt. Let this be a warning to you: neglect one of your creations, and it will come back and bite you in the ass eventually.

one And finally, a poem, written not long ago:

last night of the year and I am caught again staring at that sallow yellow horizon full of strange promise. maybe delancey street is cold and dark and quiet, but inside life is warm sweaty and pulsing, pushing me and spilling beer from a plastic cup, stammering a drunken apology. inside truth is music, gray haired with granny glasses screaming passion that is twenty five years old but still hits my gut every time. inside your mouth is on mine, my heart is in your hand when the clock hits midnight. we walk home, vomit on the streets and the fire trucks gliding noisily past, buoyed by our shouts. everything is fresh and raw and bleeding, bleeding from that yellow to early morning blue. again again and again. a new desperation for a new year.