1. i went to my psychiatrist three months ago to request a limited prescription of klonopin for emergency keith-related situations. 

    i took one this morning, since the possibility of losing all of my brother’s recent text messages seemed to fit this description, and i really didn’t want the mac guy to have to experience a fruitless temper tantrum. plus, to paraphrase wendy chun, we spend so much time bemoaning the internet’s archiving capabilities, when most of us are more likely to experience the opposite problem: the loss of what we were trying to keep. no matter what was about to happen, i hoped that the klonopin would help me be more philosophical about the situation.  

    marc met me at the apple store, where he said that he had planned the narrative he was going to give to tech support, since narrative, timelines, and discussions that don’t involve multiple tangents to explain anything there might be to know about people involved in any given scenario, and how they are related to each other and other people entirely, all details which may or may not be related to the event at hand, are not really my strong suit.      

    this narrative is kind of long and rambling already. suffice to say: my brother’s texts were restored. they are supposedly backed up in two places, but i am still going through and screenshotting everything important tonight. i wish i could tell you more about what i mean by this; i can’t. 

    they couldn’t fix my camera, or even (expensively) upgrade me to the higher-quality iphone, because there were no more in stock. get it together, apple. i’m still going to try to get the new one before the honeymoon, though. the last twelve or so hours without instagram to sooth me via scrolling, posting, and notifications have been a little excruciating.  

  2. #1 party animals. 

  3. marc came home with a new computer for me: my other mac is so old i can’t even get itunes to work on it; my chromebook isn’t compatible with anything and i can’t write any words with the letter “m” unless i press really hard; and the camera on that, and my (merely months old) iphone, broke weeks before mercury retrograde. he thought the new macbook air, which was supposed to be a christmas present, might be a good gift for tonight. 

    it seemed promising—distracting, pretty, useful—but so far it has temporarily and seriously even further broken my iphone, which won’t work at all. i certainly can’t get to my brother’s text messages, which i have planned for months to take pictures of tonight, and need for reasons far beyond nostalgia. if i lose my brother’s final text messages i will lose it. i don’t even think my parents have his phone; i have already inquired with marc if we could get a lawyer to get it back. for evidence: no one will ever believe me. 

    good luck to the geniuses at the genius bar dealing with me tomorrow; years of pride in how i treat all workers, always, about to go down the drain. i couldn’t even take a picture of a picture of my brother today. this is the best i could do with my new photobooth: age six, i think, holding creampuff, who was born on our back deck along with three other kittens. i really wanted a picture of both of us with all of them, and the mother, too. i’m on a pretty serious mission tonight: i told marc to go to sleep; i know it’s here, and i will look through all of my photos again. 

  4. it’s my brother’s birthday. last night my mom told me that her boyfriend took the day off so that they could keep themselves busy and my father sent me a recent, smiling photo of keith. today, after visiting the cemetery, he sent me a photo of the grave of my high school boyfriend (which was shocking, then less so, and didn’t look at all like i remember, though the last time i saw it was probably over 15 years ago and was covered in snow). “lucky i don’t wear mascara,” he said before he, like my mom, told me they needed to stop typing because they were crying.

    my iphone camera has been broken for weeks and i have an appointment to get a new one tomorrow, before we leave for our honeymoon on saturday. that means i have to go through my brother’s old text messages—at least the last few batches—and take pictures of the ones i need to take pictures of, because i might need them later. (i think the messages are supposed to transfer to the new phone automatically, but my apple products break constantly, and i’m not taking the risk.) 

    i probably already have an idea of the worst of it, though that doesn’t mean i’m really ready to revisit them. there’s a text from a week or two before keith died when he says that his doctor had just put him on adderall, and he didn’t like it, and had i ever been on adderall, and what happened. i don’t think i ever told him about the things that happened to me while i was on adderall; i assumed we had more time to discuss it.

    (the other night i said to marc that i knew it was the anniversary of something, but what could it have been the anniversary of; the next day i remembered that three years ago i opened my car door while traveling at full-speed on the BQE. in an emergency session my therapist asked if i had wanted to jump and, while it followed a fight and a brand-new prescription for wellbutrin, i had said—bewildered—no. then i went off the wellbutrin, had a seizure, was in the hospital. i’m not entirely ready to see what keith’s prescription drug cocktail was just three months ago or how that cocktail could have interacted with the particular stresses—the threat of having his foot amputated?—that he was facing.)

    anyway, i guess i’m as ready for this as i’m going to be.   


  5. the first semester of my MA year one of my professors said that one of her professors said that it takes two-and-a-half years to truly incorporate anything you learn. i took a class on goffman maybe three years ago. i’m sure many of you know more about goffman than i do: that was back when i was wearing the same dress every day, for weeks. though heather love gave me some of the best comments on the ensuing paper that i’ve ever gotten. 


  6. machschine:

    TJ Clark and I took an elevator together yesterday (I texted my friend, “Omg I’m alone with TJ Clark” instead of trying to figure out what to say to him because — you know) and then he gave a talk — a long, gorgeous meditation on the true blues and dark recesses and fine delineations of a single Giotto that culminated, on several occasions, in insights that did not clearly function in the service of any overarching thesis. I thought it was the most luxurious thing, both to produce and to take in. Against the capitalist imperative of efficiency, here was a guy inducting us into an alternative temporal rhythm — it was like we were treading this undulating thing without any real, or at least immediately discernible, direction. The point revealed itself so slowly. I liked this a lot, maybe even briefly thought it could be radical, but no one else agreed with me. I’ve had a cold for the past three weeks so I don’t even know anymore. This is an unfinished thought

    or, like, so many epiphanies—could that be irigarian?—though maybe insights are better. i read a horoscope that said my old ambition would return this year, which seems unlikely, but if i were going to have intellectual goals, they might include a luxurious, anti-efficient way of writing or speaking. wait. “gorgeous,” perhaps, or something differently seductive. regardless: don’t read me, read the paragraph above, which seems as lovely as what it’s describing, something to appreciate or aspire to. 


  7. bloomcity:

    you guys ever think those short story writers who are publicly, repeatedly, like, “every sentence must be leading to the great crescendo that is The Point, every word perfect" etc. etc. are just trying to like. intimidate people from the genre/elevate their own worth? and more importantly do they have friends? have they ever had ANY FUN? 

    NO MORE EPIPHANIES. (more fun.) 


  8. hazelcills:


    There’s something about Sarah Jones’ photography series “Francis Place” that is creepy. In the photos, dully titled “The Sitting Room” or “The Dining Room,” teen girls sit in domestic interiors. Sometimes they stare off into the distance, in others one may stare at the camera. They flip…

    hazel’s take on feminist boredom, sarah jones’ phototography (which i didn’t know), and the work of lauren greenfield, whose images often accompanied the beauty and health stories i wrote or edited at teen vogue; it felt like a victory every time she let us run one. 

    (via contagiousintimacies)


  9. i keep thinking about lazz’s testo junkie notes, which are all worth reading: “transversal methodologies”; “trans bodies not as exceptions to rules but exemplications of rules”; “ways of writing that make you feel as well as think”; “biodrag,” “technogender”—i think i’m only quoting some of the best stuff.  

    in 2009, during my second or third week of graduate school, i wrote a paper comparing trans embodiment to the embodiment of fashion magazine editors. it sounds ridiculous, but in that moment that was so equally uninitiated and informed that it might have been disturbingly sophisticated, there was something. 

    if i remember correctly—though it might be past mattering—i argued not for sameness, but for relation: that the hyperfeminine bodies of these editors acted as a kind of decoy, or camouflage, for hypermasculine actions. meaning that gender expression is not so static: i have seen what anna wintour does in oscar de la renta skirts. and i remember, fondly, when josé said that no woman who wears heels as high as i do could possibly be straight. i’ve been meaning to read more about prosthetics (lazz and preciado’s “microprostheses”?); in her fetish course, barbara teaches an essay on lesbian dildos that feels urgent.

    marc once told me that he told his friend who asked about our relationship: “she makes me feel like a man.” last week, in a conversation about our house, he said “so you want intimacy not just with people, but also with objects?” today he said that i don’t have to make being pretty my one chore; he is open to evolution, like me taking out the garbage. right. 


  10. today we stopped by a furniture store where i pointed out a mirrored end table with wooden legs that could act as a bar and marc, in turn, pointed out an oversize silver swordfish. we bought both, among other things, and one of the owners said “this is going to be a good marriage.”

    marc made a fire, and is roasting a chicken, and we are drinking a pinot grigio from the local winery, which is where everyone on instagram gets married. “national anthem” came on the ipod with “god you’re so handsome/take me to the hamptons.” we had already gone in the pool for our final swim of the season.

    “say hello to heaven” played, too, and it’s the anniversary of the death of my high school boyfriend, who introduced me to temple of the dog, and even to tori amos, who i have officially decided to never see in concert, because every time she plays anywhere near me something bad happens: his car accident, my hospital stay, my brother dying. i don’t know her new music, anyway. it would be keith’s birthday this coming week.

    marc and i also debated—apropos of something i’ve forgotten—whether we are upper class. i said yes. he said no: the upper class consists of very few jews and going to the university of colorado automatically discounts you— you have to have gone to an ivy or a seven sisters. i said i was happy to help. he also insists that the upper class lives on the other side of the montauk highway, which is fine with me, i’m in hiding. the kind of hiding in which we drive up to our house and the older woman who lives next door says “how are my cutie-pie neighbors,” and we laugh, and she goes right back to sweeping leaves off her lawn.