anthems for a 31 year old girl

my goal over spring break was to send out 100 resumes in 9 days.
it's day 5 and i've sent out 6 resumes.

however, i have determined my skill set.
i can readily...

run 5 miles
burn 2 veggie burgers
read 4 local newspapers
buy 3 albums i do not need
consume a box of girl scout cookies
download music in a quasi-legal fashion
check e-mail and concert sites obsessively
listen to one broken social scene song for 2 hours
make sure that my list of skills pyramids down the page

i am a total dork.
i need to go ahead and date online if the blond from last nite doesn't call. i went to the dave rawlings machine with him. can't quite figure out if he falls in the "i've known you for 13 years so why are we now in the same room" category or not. he likes music kind of like i like music (but not as much b/c liking music that much would be obsessive and weird).

a friend of ours cock-blocked me by getting wasted and having him drive her home. she has a serious boyfriend... so they didn't hook up.
but neither did i.
again.

our ideas held no water but we used them like a dam

as i left school today, i realized that it is my last spring break ever. i'm 31 years old and this is my last spring break. i'm seriously considering maxing out my credit card to go to key west. that's what i did in college.

i almost cried.
i will before the week is out.
i will at least 17 times the last week of school.

i am no longer a teacher (holy fuck); and when kids come to ask me why i'm leaving, i tell them that i can't make it on a teaching salary.

which isn't necessarily the truth.
i could live in a "further than the one i'm in" suburb.
but i won't.
i'm a snob.

i judge people for paper products, when they wear white, if they RSVP...
i'm a snob who is about to have an anxiety attack.
sweet.

cerebral death match TWO- faith vs. nihilism

i think that i'm ready to commit.

(not so much myself to lakeside.
the threatened fate of every memphis kid who is an alcoholic)

more so to the pulsing vein of nihilism

proof that i can not do this:
bright sunlight on a patio
modest mouse on american idol
a rotten muffin at bongo java
seeing the friend twice
a tick on a dog
a wet towel on the forehead
hair in the drain
the first mile on my belmont run
the silence when we become


it's not science fiction.
it's a fucking double feature.
of the same movie.
i gotta quit buyin' tickets to this shit.

the way some people die

so i'm went to the ryman last friday and forgot my id.
buckling buckling.
i'm standing in line with this look of oh.
god.
i.
can't.
have.
another.
beer?
i had already had three, and stopping there does very bad things to my esophageal lining. very bad things. think old alka-seltzer commercials.

so i trundle up to the id checker while rummaging through my purse and look at him sheepishly, preparing to make a clear argument that i am obviously over 21 and that, come on... i have crow's feet.
i take a deep breath, start with, "i can't find it... i think i forgot it." take another deep breath to continue my opening statement and

the guy takes one look at me and slaps a wristband around my wrist.

that slap was the last thing i remember hearing before i came to terms with the fact that i am getting old.
the shins just weren't the same.

i mean, i'm so old that i don't even think to pack my id when i go out.
i'm that old.
thank god that im this cool.
insert maniacal laugh.

i have nothing

i am going to have some really coherent things to say about the shins at the ryman tomorrow.

right now all i have is

mmmmmmm...... girl scout cookies.
mmmmmm....... peanut butter.
mmmmmmm...... yo la tengo.

i'm coming to saint louis on a week day.
try april 13th-ish.
i need to make up for what i did in the bushes last time.

how can i live without you?

today, i showed the wilco dvd by sam jones to my creative writing class.

i'll miss that about my job- getting to watch kickass documentaries under the guise of education. in all reality, it was one of the best lessons i have taught this year.

watch the scene about 30 minutes in where tweedy and bennett argue about the transition from ashes of american flags to heavy metal drummer (not really what they are arguing about-duh. do couples ever argue about what they are really arging about?)
n-e-way
we did a study on body language and scene setting... what you show your reader/viewer always tells them how to feel. translates to life as well. we transitioned to this concept and its application to romantic relationships.
good times.
good times.

huh.
right now in the background, my roomie is listening to some guy.man.person with a penis on american idol singing lee ann rhimes, whom i randomly saw out on friday night.

this is the reason i do not own a hand gun. either the tv or i would have bought it.

cerebral death match- faith vs. nihilism

i can't quite commit to the vein of nihilism that allows me not to feel bad when i make fun of someone for having triangle fingers. or when i unabashedly admit that i am hot and this is not a compliment, but merely a pathetic observation. just when i think that not a damn bit of it really matters, a series of events reminds me that it does.

in ninth grade geometry i almost learned proofs.
it's like i told mr. roberts.
i just know... why do i have to explain it?
he was right though.
we have to explain, sometimes.


proof that i can do this:
the full moon and an overpass
the soft sound of dust on vinyl
red and not white
a series of sevens
a squirrel on a fence
moving the cat
mementos on the floor
the eighth mile in an 11 mile run
the truth when we become tired


damn it janet.
none of these proofs make any sense.
no wonder i got a D in geometry.

the friend pyramid

today, i tried to explain to someone the different types of friends in my life...

there are the party til 3 am and shop for prada bag friends, who are there for you when your boyfriend is a shithead (not that i have a boyfriend)

then, there are the drive you to the abortion clinic friends, who are there for you when you live your mistakes (not that i've had an abortion)

finally, there are the art gallery/indie rock friends, who are always willing to debate the existence of god with you after a bottle of spanish wine (not that i'm an atheist)

all of these friend types are necessary to sustaining health- somewhat like a balanced diet. we all need fat, protein, and sugar to survive. unfortunately, my friend diet has been a little less than balanced in the music city.

somebody call the USDA!!!
(on a side note- it is so wrong that the food pyramid is put out by the USDA and not the FDA. six grains a day. are you kidding me?? fat ass nation for sale)

ANYWAY
one of my sugary friends is headed to nash. after a stint in boston and manhatten, my art history/MBA/museum development director amaza-friend is taking a position at the frist.

we're gonna have to find something else to debate after tearing through some rioja, because there is definitely a God.

poetry for the masses

a favorite that makes me feel not alone.

Marriage
by Gregory Corso


Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.