pricks. pop. pompadour.

tonight I scalded myself on purpose; the hottest, hottest bath that ever has been. I wanted to go out like cancer thrown into a pot. To sit & soak & let stress & cold burn right off of me. six inches water to escape in. steam flying all around. pink skin. pins and needles.

Staring at limbs lay a trail of bites in a row. at this time, in that light, they resemble the damage done by a needle’s point. I wonder if people wonder about me when I roll my sleeves. a junky queen.

my space is not mine. bare and barren. stripped and exposed. controlled, barely, by quarantine. paralyzed, partly, by parasites. a mattress like an open casket. a coffin of toxins. cold air & perpetual fans. i don’t feel like I live here anymore. remaining things await flame in bags. the nights are long, my bed is shared with midnight snackers. I do not rest in peace.

A series of questions I have been asking in various stages of insomnia: Is this purgatory? Karma? Fortune? Timing? Deserved?

in a mean spirited way, I appreciate that misery loves company. especially now. there is some sick comfort by not being the only victim drawing blood.I dig the collective experience. The neighbors had it first. which means that, Dick, you're off the hook, though I am still suspicious of new york and those who dwell there.

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a cold snap has descended on this town post pop pandemonium...

side note friends: it was intense. puces pop. porn pop. symposium. music fest pop. film pop. diy clothing. zinemaking. crafting. everything in five days of madness. MAKING and doing and singing and sharing and networking and inspiring at the brink of winter. it makes me want to hunker down and forget all about my education in favor of becoming - what ? something. not an artist, though. something less, something more; a volunteer for sure. or a zine contributor at least. or a leggy screaming tambourine excuse for dance music. it is good to set goals for oneself. especially at the brink of winter, when things are bleak and cold and you sleep alone. I saw these guys play + http://www.myspace.com/therealhermandune - amazing. what a barbe. check.

the wind is cold, heavy, moist. layers do you no good. 2am bike rides down mountains with wet wind on your face & half-working breaks is indescribably life-affirming and reasonably reckless. nothing save cutting cool air through your body and high hopes no one swings open a car door.

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I have been doing some thinking about women in journalism lately and need to talk it out. due to the fact that a) I am writing a history paper on the subject and b) by identifying as a 'journalist' I am now included in this subject position, it feels as if I am opening my third eye or something...

Firstly, if you ever read up on what women went through to get a discourse in the man-made media you will agree that it has been quite the evolution: social attitudes discouraged us, advertising exploited (but at least included?) us, news values changed because of us, and 'info-tainment' couldn't survive a day without us (because advertising STILL exploits us). we are leaders of major social reform, but we are still stunt girls. this is a paradox.

at least women have always been creative in finding ways to participate when they're not included in the dialogue, so fuck you mainstream. fuck you then, fuck you now. it is empowering to know that suffrage sisters were keeping it real with alternative news media since the 19th century and this tradition continues all the way to web 2.0 happening right now. three cheers blogosphere.

perhaps authenticity reigns when it is raw and uncensored by 'man-stream' media - if current industry practices are any indication, they are making this postmodern feminist journalist reel in contempt. the overwhelming popularity of carrie bradshaw, hyper-individualistic, consumer-oriented, emotionally-questionable, marry-me-mr-big, sex and the city style journalism? naked news dot com? 'ken and barbie' anchor people (hetero) sexualizing good morning america with bad haircuts (and no moustaches : ( ) ? bleh. on top of that, this industry is still man-handled with a 60% sexual harassment rate and glass ceiling to boot. something is wrong here. for serious.

I smell the cock.

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but I don't have any answers. yet.
I only have a pompadour.