I am ignoring my responsibilities this week because I can't really handle the idea of them, much less tackling them. Far from feeling ineffectual, I've been writing more of what I want to write. It's liberating. But I know I'll regret it later.
But.
I am also at the end of my rope with this gallery. Suddenly it's like the epicenter of f-ing midtown. I have had a bowl of ramen here (awesomely delicious Korean ramen from the place across the street) for an hour and a half and I'm about halfway through it, and I've been trying to watch a 3-minute video on YouTube for about the same amount of time. I've gotten 30 seconds in. Because every time I put the phone down some moron walks in and stares at me so I can't be stuffing my mouth with noodles. And when that person passes, the phone rings again, and when I put it down it rings again, and when I put THAT down, the same moron is back at the desk asking some inane question, and then when the moron walks away again, another moron comes in, and then someone from the back office comes walking past and because I can hear them before I can see them, anytime someone from the back office approaches I have to assume it's a Big Boss, which means, again, that I can't be stuffing my face with noodles. It's like a three-ring goddamn circus in here.
I should be happy because the busy-ness means that we're selling art, which means that my job is secure and that the Big Bosses are in better moods than usual (seriously, yesterday TKR offered me cookies [which I refused because I hate her; when I said no thanks, she looked taken aback--haha, take THAT you scum!] and today Mr. Levai told me he was 'excellent' when I asked how he was doing). But the truth is, I don't give a CRAP about the gallery's sales, and I have a horrendous splitting headache that won't go away. I like it when it's really, really quiet and nobody is buying anything, because then I can eat my lunch in less than two hours and get some work done, if I want.
Hm.
But I was going somewhere with this.
Writing....
Hm.
Oh well, it's gone.
/rant

Skinny Puppy: or, my anger management issues

I want to be there in the thick of it, protecting, holding fast against what might hurt her. I want to be bashing in skulls. I'm always like that. At concerts I jump into mosh pits and get beaten down unless I'm held back by someone bigger, wiser, less prone to starting fights. There's this thing in me, some kind of tribal being with no regard for personal safety or the convention of nonviolence. Sometimes people deserve to be kicked in the face. And I can kick pretty high. I kicked someone in the head once, after ample warning, and he was still shocked.
And yet, there are always cops around, watching. Or crowds with their disapproving glares. Or reasonable folks standing nearby, talking me back from ripping off my shirt and plunging in--reminding me I am not really the Incredible Hulk. I am Lynsey. I am small and weak.
I remind them that I've got the crazy in me. My temper flares are like sunspots. They can cause all kinds of problems.
But, yes, I can hurt too. And I do, when I watch the melee going on around me, when I stand on the sidelines and watch and tremble with this fury that seems born into me. Instead I smash things, non-living things, and when I was young I learned to imagine that alarm clocks and mirrors had feelings, like all of my toys. Not so I could talk to them or feel like I had companions, but so that when I broke them, I would feel more triumphant. "Just punch your pillow," said friends when I told them my rage had gotten me in trouble again, when I broke the sliding glass door. "But pillows never seem like they feel it," I'd answer. "They bounce right back."
I wanted to jump into the fray last night, pound my fists into you and watch you reel back. Rip off these damn chains and unleash the fury of my purple pants. Dance like the devil was in me.
But I remembered, thank god, that no one was holding me back this time. That guy with the meathead might really pummel me. I held myself back.
Or, maybe I'm just old and lazy.

Lord, I was Born a Ramblin' Man: or, androgynous, confused self-reflection

Some days, when the time drags by slowly with busywork, as I watch my hours of productivity fall away unused, a sadness begins to steal in around noon. Quietly, pad-footed, cat-burgling my energy in slow steps, until sometime in the mid-afternoon I look up and realize my heart is wide open. I want to turn on slow songs, quiet songs, about honey and childhood and remorse, and stare quietly at falling rain and think about candles dripping. I feel tenderized, as if someone had beaten me with one of those big wood meat pounder things with the blunt spikes, as if the smallest prick of emotion aimed my direction could stab a fork in me. I see flashes of all the beautiful eyes I've known in my life, the big, wide brown ones and the long-lashed hazels and the occasional stunning blues. I feel heartache coming on, a rip working its way up from my stomach along the very back of my trachea and expanding every time I shift in my chair. I want be very, very still, let myself feel the waves of nostalgia and yearning and mystery of where I am now. I feel tricklings inside, as of raindrops on a window pane but perhaps it's just the pane of me, being as transparent as ever. The past few weeks have been emotional but mostly for other people--I'm just on the periphery watching the action. But the contact with intense feeling has brought about my weakness to the seduction of abandonment to those whims. To feel so deeply, to lose myself in the blackness of it, the shutting down of thoughts, to weep or to scream or to swoon... It's been a long time. And I miss it. Adulthood sucks out those wild moments and replaces them with routine, comfort, calculation, practical considerations and those occasional breakthroughs of sordid passion through the mud-caked armor... They are real and close and loud, and we shut them out, shut them down, shut ourselves away. But I've gotten a taste and I'm fiending for more.
I suppose it's just a matter of an empty day. Not a quiet one or an easy one, but one during which my brain has had little to do but sit still with itself and let its thoughts roam inward. But here I sit amidst the bustle of the gallery, with my heart pulsing for everyone to see, just hoping someone will notice and break it.

Unrelated but Pertinent

Any person who comes into the gallery whistling is someone I do not want to talk to.

Ponderings: or, possibly I am now a criminal

I... have not blogged.... for a week. And so now, it's time to blog. And yet here I am on Monday morning with a frustrating lack of things happening in my brain. I tried to Gchat a moment ago and nothing happened. Just no words.
Sooooo....
I just wrote this article for Whack! which was horrendously underdeveloped and kind of badly put together in the first place, but which I didn't have enough time to fix. And which I feel really weird about having written. Because in the article I make a case for people being less hysterically panicky about child molesters, aka sex offenders.
Because, here's the thing, I'm not in any way condoning really messed up things that people might do to children. We're not living in a day and age where forcing a prepubsecent child into a sexual situation is ok. I don't know that there would ever be a day or age where that would be ok. It skews the child's understanding of sex and what it means, turns it into a dark and painful thing rather than a joy, as it should be. Warps the growing-up process. Hurts everyone involved. It's wrong.
But I also think that because as a culture we're so terrified of the prospect, we've also gone a bit overboard with our definition of it and our desire to catch the bad guys responsible. I mean, I understand that the age of consent is high in most industrialized countries in hopes of preventing young people from being taken advantage of by older people. But there was a kid recently locked up for TEN YEARS on a statutory rape charge, because when he was seventeen he had oral sex with a fifteen year old.
That's not ok with me. He didn't really do anything wrong. Sure, she was fifteen and probably didn't really know what she was doing in the grand scheme of things, but, A) he was seventeen and he probably didn't really know either, and B) nobody EVER really knows, and C) he was only two years older! That is not the same as 35 year old man preying on a five year old child. It's not the same at all. And yet this guy will be forever labeled a sex offender. His life is ruined. For no good reason.
Consider the fact that there are cops posted to the ICAC (Internet Crimes Against Children) Taskforce who are undergoing serious emotional trauma because of the things they're forced to see at work. Consider that there are cops across the country posing online as young kids or the guardians thereof, offering sex with minors to perverts online. Consider that guys responding to these offers are often arrested without having committed a crime.
Consider that we are so terrified of child molestation that we get suspicious of any adult male near our kids. If a kid falls on the playground and a man is there to help them up and dust them off, we think "pervert" instead of "helpful." It's weird, isn't it?
And, in another vein but still under the general premise of this conversation, consider the fact that a fifteen year old "girl" in this day and age has probably been getting her period for three or more years, developed a fully functional adult body, and is horny as all hell. She is probably not really mature enough to understand or interpret her horniness adequately, but those are the facts.
Also consider that there is a thriving industry based on "barely legal" female porn performers who 'just turned eighteen.' Many of these girls might not be eighteen yet, and many others are barely over the line. It's ok to jerk off to them, though, because they're 'legal.'
Furthermore, consider that as animals, we are biologically programmed to find young adults attractive. Younger females tend to be healthier and more able to have healthy babies. Younger men tend to have more energy, be faster and stronger and more able to bring home the bacon. While TOO young is obviously not ok from a moral, social, OR biological standpoint, the fact that lots of guys get off to 'barely legal' porn isn't so much gross as biologically expected.
Of course there's a line between what's ok and what's not, but it seems to me that we are so terrified of people crossing it that we've made the line a thin, solid black one separating the adults from the children in a world where it's a much more grey, fuzzy line that covers a whole lot of territory.
And I think we need to figure out a way to be less panicky and more comprehensive about it. I don't have any anwers to the problem, but it's been on my mind and it bugs me.

Ok. So that's the premise. Does this make me a bad person?

Third Column is UP!

Check me out, I'm such a writer! My third column is up on McSweeney's! This one is a lot more of a story than my usual rambling, and I happen to think it's pretty funny. Let me know if you agree!

New York Gears Up for Halloween: or, almost a bum-fight

Yesterday when I left work to go to my night class, I heard some inarticulate shouting from down the block, but couldn't see its source. Intrigued, I approached the sound, and as I got closer I discerned a hobo, complete with shopping cart full of plastic bags-o-crap, arms raised to the heavens, shouting out incoherent witness to the Gods of Bums.

Just then, another hobo, sitting discreetly against an abandoned building with a coffee cup full of change some fifteen yards away and watching the first hobo, started yelling back!

It was a showdown:

Hobo #2: Shut UP! Shut the fuck UP!

Hobo #1: (continuing his earlier conversation with himself) So I said, what you wanna take my coat off? You want me to pull my pants down?

Hobo #2: SHUT UP you crazy motherfucker!

Alas, I was already late for class so I couldn't stop to see what kind of insane hobo antics were about to occur, but I can only assume that pants were dropped and blows exchanged.

Ahhhh, New York. You're ready for All Hallow's Eve.

An Update on NYC: or, weird things I've seen lately.

1) Yesterday, in Central Park, two dwarves walking together. Maybe brothers? I guess it doesn't sound so impressive in writing, but honestly, how often do you see that?

2) Also yesterday, a man came into the gallery with the most amazing set of mutton chops I have EVER SEEN in the flesh. I've only seen better photos because I've looked up pictures from international beard competitions. His facial hair--and his eyebrows, too--was bright white, surprisingly wispy, and at least three inches long.

3) Last week, outside FAO Schwarz, I got stuck on the sidewalk behind a very old couple (think upwards of 80) who were walking excruciatingly slowly. I got annoyed and moved to go out around them before realizing that the woman had BRIGHT BLUE HAIR. Like cerulean blue hair. It was AWESOME. I wanted to stop and tell her how much I liked it, but of course I chickened out instead.

4) Dan Akroyd.

5) Some other pseudo-famous lady whosename I dont know, but whose face is extremely memorable. Think big, inflamed looking chipmunk cheeks and short brown hair. Old.

Stolen Stories: or, I'm lazy

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you New York City:

A woman standing on a Manhattan subway platform with her pants down bit a New York City police officer in the back, police said Thursday.

Cops: Woman with pants down on subway bites officer
September 24, 2009 By DANIEL EDWARD ROSEN. Special to Newsday

The woman, whose name was not released, was standing on the mezzanine of the 34th Street-Herald Square station, according to a police spokesman. When two police officers approached the woman, she ran down to the southbound Q train platform, where she was apprehended.

During the arrest, one officer sustained a bite mark to his back and a bruised left shoulder, and the other suffered "facial injuries," the spokesman said.

Both officers were taken to St. Vincent's Hospital, where they are being treated.

The woman was taken to Bellevue Medical Center for examination and is not expected to face charges, the spokesman said.

I Can't Write Poetry Anymore: or, why journalism sucks

I realize it every time I read something poetic that someone else has written, but it hits home even more when I listen to music or--good gracious--try to write a poem myself. It's the reason I've always told people I hate journalistic writing. It sucks out the soul. And sure, nobody wants to read about my piddling emotional turmoil, but it sure used to feel good when I wrote it. It was my release all through high school, some college, on the reservation. To take my pent-up everything and spew it out on paper in such a disgustingly drippy fashion that I can't even stand to look back through my own journals. I guess I'll have to burn them when I feel death coming on; couldn't bear to have anyone look into my pencil-scrawled soul and realize that, yes, I really was--am--that shallow.
I've been writing informative (I should put that in quotations: 'informative') articles and op-ed pieces and columns and even straightforward fiction for two years now, for different outlets, and it's made me take the focus away from my poetry, my painting with letters. And that's probably a good thing. I need to know how to say what I want to say in language other people can understand, or at least read without wanting to vomit up adjectives. But. Still.
Now, if I want to come up with a beautiful phrase, I have to conjure it from thin air. Cause that's the thing about writing facts for meager pocket change: you forget to feel. For god's sake, this blog is about my made-up paranoia about robots and slime molds, and even that has devolved into a vessel of promotion for my other writing projects! I can't force myself to write something deep and profound even when I try. I decided to make this blog about something besides me--the real me, the tormented dark soul that used to scrawl itself out in pencil all over everything at its disposal--so nobody would get bored reading my weird and personal bullshit.
But. Now I look at it. Do I even HAVE any weird personal bullshit anymore? Am I so busy being a 'writer' who writes things for other people because that's the only way to be a success these days that I've lost the part of myself that wanted to write in the first place?
When I go to parties for research now I don't write later about the crazy euphoria of drunkenly watching other people or of the breathless walk back through the watching night of the Bronx. I don't remember those feelings. I get home and I sit down and I write the facts, like minutes from a meeting, like a fucking PTA Secretary. When I sit down to the computer I start searching for news stories. When I write I use verbs and nouns. I'm sardonic. I'm sarcastic. I'm straight-forward-all-the-facts-all-the-time.
Probably because I could never explain to my parents, those knowers of all things, why I wanted to write. They loved my stories, sure. But they wanted me to be a Something with a Big Paycheck, a Solid Part of the Community. A scientist or an athlete or a something useful. So I never showed them the poems. I never commented on the feelings. I just bottled them up and became "dark" and wrote about my "darkness" in journals I then locked in a suitcase in the attic, which still bothers my mother because she can't get into it. And when I did get poems published, or feel good about them, they'd be the imagery ones. The story ones. Not the emotional ones, the real ones, the raw ones, the passionate ones... not Writerly enough. Not Good Writing. Can't be sent to a magazine because they were just me.
And now look where it's gotten me. I'm reporting back to you on my lack of poetry using concrete terms. Who, what, where, when, why, and how. What does the audience want to read? Will this sell? Will I get comments?

...all bullshit.
This is not ok.
I need more than all this.
That need is why I became a writer. To feel, to report back, to make it all beautiful. Not to inform or add to the wealth of human knowledge. Knowledge is overrated and nobody can ever have all of it. But all of us have all the emotion and the wonder in the universe. That's all we have in common. I should be writing about that.