i understand... addendum.

today, my neighbor was over for a customary chat. suddenly, my father looked at me and asked all of us, "doesn't she look more like audrey hepburn? or leslie caron? french, at least."

does this mean i can wear bangs?

i understand why men seem to think we're crazy.

my father saw the ophthalmologist today, the same one my mother and i saw earlier in the week. apparently, she told him that i have the most beautiful blue eyes she's ever seen. i don't know whether this actually happened or whether my father embellished her compliment so he could praise my eyes yet again, but that's all beside the point (if there is a point at all).

when i went to see her, she commented on how lucky i was to have such large pupils. i don't know how this makes me lucky other than not requiring dilation, since my pupils were large enough to examine without being artificially forced to enlarge. i guess this also means i see more light than people with normal-sized pupils. perhaps that's partly the reason why i find sunlight to be absolutely breathtaking, even if it does make me sneeze and, on some occasions, cry (though i think this last portion has to do with my iris color [a little too blue for an overcast sky, a little too grey for ice] and how supposedly "sensitive" blue eyes are. go figure).

it's no surprise that i have large eyes. they're almost abnormally big, and i do like them, but they're big without being doe-like. thus (and to the men, i'm sorry if you start to lose me any my "logic"), i cannot wear bangs. i am not audrey hepburn, nor am i french; large doe-eyes, high cheekbones and the ability to wear short bangs and long hair successfully seem to be reserved for these two categories of women: french, and audrey look-a-likes. thus, my hair is nice, but boring — long without much flavor to it — and my glasses must be very particular. contacts, a, are bothersome, and b, would make me look like a dolt, since i definitely have developed a redness to my face everywhere other than where my glasses shield my eyes.

sometimes, i wish i were french. or audrey. or simply could wear bangs and suck it up and make those contacts work.

alas, i'm stuck with glasses that are 5 years old, on a quest to find new ones that don't make me look like a pretentious hipster so i can fill my new prescription.

i will, however, suck it up and look like a pretentious hipster for the sake of some prescription ray-bans. if no-one can see my eyes behind the polarization effect, then perhaps it'll be fine. perhaps i'll stop crying in the presence of the sun.

in participating in what is historically customary, here is an amendment: the weight of the world is the weight of our fear

what stuck with me most was an account of a patient, an ex army man, who swore that he would rather be lowered from a helicopter. he would rather clutch a swaying rope in solitude, no companions except those in the air. he would rather be lowered into unsecured territory. he would rather be a moving target; literally, he would rather be shot at, the subject of enemy fire. no, he would rather be shot. maimed, physically distorted, hurt -- this, in his mind, would be easier, and altogether more comfortable than speaking to a woman, any woman. anyone.

the weight of the world is the weight of our transgression

apical sadness. this is our weight in ounces. these are our crimes.

color me kubrick is a sad movie. though some scenes are written with comedy in mind, the content itself is nothing short of tragic. john malkovich (a con-man whose only distinguishable purpose is to impersonate director stanley kubrick) plays the central role. he cons his victims so that he may flaunt some inferiority complex, or so that he may spend a few days in the lap of luxury, or so that he can simply enjoy stature. this confidence man (alan is his real name) takes his game a step further: he changes kubrick's character according to victim (e.g. flamboyant pervert, cranky and loud, shy and dignified, austere). with time, alan is caught, he has pushed the envelope well past its tearing point. and so, staying true to his character, he feigns psychosis; he claims that he thinks-- rather, he knows he is mr. stanley kubrick. without hesitation, the doctors believe him.

but this is not how the movie ends. something you don't know: alan is an alcoholic, and so too is this false stanley kubrick. things are not lost in translation when malkovich changes character from simpleton to film god; instead, his demons follow.

and so after alan fakes miraculous recovery, he is admitted to a first-rate rehabilitation facility, an estate, a facility that is itself a go-to for the rich and famous. there is no outrage. there is no disbelief, or blame. indeed, alan is relieved, and more, he is satisfied. he has finally been invited into the opulence and company he has looked for all along. until now, he has trespassed.

I am not saying we should relent to the voice inside us that goads us on to fraudulence and civil disrespect. I am not saying we should air a self-facade. I am not saying we are the bearers of sadness and that the world bears us. I am not saying anything.

The Average Lifespan Of A Horsefly Is Thirty To Sixty Days. I Should Do More With My Life.

Moments after I coughed, I heard the buzzing of a horsefly.
I wonder if it was in my throat all along.

strange dreams, part 1.

"well, if i'm going to be in a fight to save the universe, i should probably be wearing my uniform."

i mean, obviously. how would i manage to defeat draco malfoy without wearing a light blue miniskirt?

(my subconscious is so odd sometimes.)

a letter to the man who never ceases to amaze me; or, wtfwjjd?

my dearest james,

i'm sure you know, as you've been watching me from your spot next to tr, that i have been struggling with your work for the past few days. i think i counted about three sentences over the course of 36 pages. plus, for whatever reason, you decided that molly doesn't like apostrophes, bringing to my attention the immense difference between "we're" and "were" or "we'll" and "well."

i suppose it's lucky for me that i'm a woman and that you somehow managed to tap into the complicated thought patterns we have, so at least i could keep up. a bit.

what i'm really trying to say is that i thought you had actually gone crazy while writing this. it was interesting, sure, but i really didn't care all too much about molly's various sexual escapades, her wish to be a man so she could appreciate her own breasts, her thoughts of her husband eating her out or ejaculating all over her body, etc. i mean, it was fun, but i found myself questioning why on earth i needed to know all this.

but, of course, in your way, you made it work. after a rather surprising section about her husband sticking his tongue in her asshole and her wish to say smutty things and actually thinking the word "fuck" a few times (i can see why the conservative public had such a hard time with your writing back in the 20s), you made it beautiful. just as i thought there was no way for this horny chapter to end on anything other than a note on sex, you evoked the wonderful elation every woman feels when they are told they are beautiful by the man (or woman) they love; the psychotic beating of the heart all people experience when they risk their entire souls for the possibility of finding safety in someone's arms; of first kisses with men you desperately wish were the first to kiss you; of those anxious moments just before 'i love you's are murmured; of the secret ecstasy of hysteria people go through when they have found the one who asks to be theirs and there is nothing left to do but let your heart beat like mad and succumb to the overwhelming dizziness and believe that you are as beautiful as a mountain flower and try to figure out a way to say what you mean without completely losing your mind and you peppered her thoughts with 'yes'es so all we're left with in those two sentences is one large resounding capitalized Yes.

how you manage to write so that my heartbeat followed molly's as she recalled bloom's proposal is beyond me. how you made me care in less than half a page is even more astounding. i'm not surprised that your articulation of one of the most beautiful feelings in life made me want to cry.

so thanks, i guess. i'll be re-visiting this soon enough, i'm sure.

for now, i'd really like to read a trashy novel to get some of my sanity back. probably the opposite of what you'd like, but i'm sure you'll understand.

keep doing what you're doing. writing books and looking out for me, i mean.

love,

me.

I Am A Soldier, A Seamstress, A Coal Miner, A Longshoreman.

I am made of people who never stopped working.
I am made of people who never stopped making it work.
And those people, these people, are the most beautiful people in the world.

how to observe the cracks without falling through

work in a restaurant is tedious and hectic until last call. the lights go from dim (the intent here was to set the mood) to full blast, contrasting the darkness just outside. the tipsy and the drunk funnel out.

the clamor of this procession is a signal: closing time: time to clean the bar. but on one particular saturday night, as the intoxicated stampede staggered to the parking lot, one customer remained. he was perched at the long rectangular counter; he was elderly (he had a cane and one of those hats that scream yes, I am old.)

later, out back, I locked the beer cooler for the night. the chiller itself rests on concrete, but as you head back to the restaurant's kitchen, the concrete gives way to wooden planks: the marina that currents below. the planks, then, act as a sort of pier, as the majority of the restaurant is held directly above water. it was here, on this walk back to the kitchen, that I stopped. with my head down, I focused on the space that exists beyond the cracks that cut straight through horizontal planks, the utter darkness of the water.

the elder at the bar did not appear mellow; there was no drink within an arm's length of him. technically, restaurant doctrine should have compelled the manager on duty to show this patron to the door.

in beginning my cleanup duties, I wet a bar-rag under the steaming faucet and wring it out over the sink. I wipe the bar, from one end to the other, and then dry. on this night, however, I hesitated. as I drew closer to the man in the corner, I could hear him repeating himself several times over: it's not a contact sport; it's not a contact sport; it's not a contact sport; cleaning the counter is not a contact sport.

I noticed the silence of the water below, how it was so inert and physically unmoving, ethereal. my gravitation to the water wasn't spooky or jarring; I was not like a character in a horror film who is rooted in place -- blinkless -- staring into the center of a stain on the wall that turns into a thick puddle of red. rather, I was amazed.

he did not smell like alcohol. he did not smell like anything. when I neared him, he snatched the rag from my hands, stroked the countertop in neat circles, and said once more: see, not a contact sport. I still don't know what the hell he meant.

The Man I Love Is Halfway Across The World, And The Only Way I Can Cope Is By Writing An Honest Like Letter To Another Man, Guys.

Dear ______,

Is it strange that I can see us growing old together, never actually sure if we're in love but settling because this is the closest - even though I really think that the closest was the way I felt about my art teacher when I was ten years old - we've ever gotten and will ever get to it; that I can see you remaining a declared introvert but reluctantly succumbing to the influence of a closeted extrovert when we make pancakes together on a Sunday morning and I smear flour on your nose and laugh, to which you haughtily reply, "THE NERVE!" and storm out of the kitchen only to return ten seconds later to tickle me to my demise; that I can see us fighting because you're dull when I'm reckless and you're reckless when I'm dull and it's a shame, isn't it, that we're right for each other at all the wrong times; that I can see us having silent picnics on Wednesday afternoons, silent, at first, because we have all of the questions and none of the answers, and silent, at last, because we have all of the answers and none of the questions; that I can see our pillow talk consisting solely of puns, but I don't think that's a bad thing, do you?

Is it stranger still, that I can see so well, despite the fact that they tell me my vision is on a very steady decline?

What I'm trying to say is: I really do think that I like you.
I think we should be friends.
I think we should be collaborators.
I think we should take twenty-five thousand words each, to start.

Katie

The Man I Love Is Halfway Across The World, And The Only Way I Can Cope Is By Writing A Serious Haiku About It, Guys.

You arrived in Rome.
God, I miss you already.
Time to fuck women!

I Would Put A New Feather In My Altruist Hat, But I Donated It To A Naked Bird.

You, the old woman who poked me, hard, in the small of my back, and snapped, "Why the hell would you give him your money? It only encourages them to beg more, fucker!" when I gave that man a dollar, are old.
You are old, so you believe that you have the God-given right to see the worst in people, and, subsequently, to change my view.
But, I, the young woman you poked, hard, in the small of my back, am young.
I am young, so I believe that I have the God-given right to see the best in people, and, subsequently, to change the world.

thoughts on rediscovering childhood photos.

1. perhaps i am my sister's second chance at life.

2. my mother is outrageously beautiful.

3. i wish that i — my eighteen-year-old self — could somehow find a way to become one of those women who manages to look at least somewhat decent when they cry.

Stranger (Things Have Happened): A Sincere Reflection On Risk That Dissolves Into A Very Insincere Piece Of Pseudo-Dramatic Writing.

Two days ago, I lit a match for the first time.
Yesterday, I talked to a stranger online for the first time.
I'm taking risks, Mom and Dad.
I'm living.
Everyone's doing it.
I found the match in a matchbox.
I found the stranger on a website.
A website that invites you to "Talk to strangers!" (its tagline, written in a font that doesn't take itself seriously enough to convince you that you're breaking a cardinal rule of childhood safety.)
I still look both ways when I cross the street (even when it's just a one-way street).
I still wash my hands before I eat (even when I'm just watching other people eat).
I'm not corrupt. Not like Goldman Sachs is corrupt.
That counts for something, right?

***

STRANGER: A New Play That's Really Dramatic And Avant-Garde And Stuff Plato Brecht Catharsis, It's All Here, Guys.

By The Playwright Formerly Known As Katie Eisenberg

A dim wash of light comes up on an empty stage. YOU, a twenty year-old woman who is definitely not Katie Eisenberg, stands in a hot spotlight, downstage right. STRANGER, a man, or maybe not, stands directly behind her.

STRANGER: lookin for horny female
YOU: Yeah
STRANGER: u
YOU: Me too.
YOU: No, looking.
STRANGER: yea
STRANGER: its a bitch
YOU: Haha.
YOU: Well, hope you find one, man.
STRANGER: good luck
VOICE: Your conversation partner has disconnected.

A ten-second fade to black, during which a mime troupe enters upstage left and begins to pantomime an orgy.

quitting the mirror

my earliest memories of my father are of his glasses. with rotund frames and brown temple arms, I remember one morning finding them on the kitchen counter, putting them on, and wondering if I would ever need them, if I would ever grow a mustache, if my young voice would come to resemble his steady baritone. and it was a few years later that I found his old straight razor in the bathroom vanity. it was silver, painted with a tinge of rust, and still sharp enough to bite; it had gone unused for years. my father had -- long ago -- transitioned to disposables, those tiny plastic devices that look too delicate to hold something sharp.

then there was my razor: an electric remington. when switched on, it issued a soft buzz, a distinctly hollow vibration. it was blue and almost rectangular and it was in sixth grade that I attended to the peach fuzz that cropped beneath my chin. I was the first in my class to take a blade to my face.

I cannot say I was proud. as the first in my class to shave, I was also the first to use aftershave. dad persuaded me to use the stuff. it was a thick gel -- cool to the touch. it came in a small bottle that was itself, I think, aqua green. dad bought it for fewer than 3 dollars from the drug store down the street.

my twin brother, the owner of an identical remington, also started shaving at this time. however, I was the first to actually wield the thing. yes, I was the first to look into the mirror with a face distinctive, I think, to men who shave. it's a look that is no more distant than it is intimate, no more despondent than active, no more ambivalent than horrific. it's the closest I've come to being consciously aware yet wholly withdrawn. it's an abandoned gaze.

the gel was supposed to hedge off razor burn, an irritation of the skin -- a rash synonymous with a red hue that is itself nothing short of unsettling -- something that could occur esspecially after using a hot electric razor. the lotion acts also as a sort of antiseptic. but it hurts. after applying it to the face, it's common to feel a pulsing tingle, a steady and ineradicable throb in the space between each ear. and it smells. I often attended school reeking of alcohol and menthol as the odor refused to dissipate until mid-morning. it didn't last long -- the application of the viscid stuff to my cheeks, the dampening of a bath towel in cold water, running the rag across m face in order to calm the pulse. I soon preferred the heat of the razor to the violence of the aftershave. and until I bordered facial indecency, I quit shaving altogether.

are we human? are we? (really?)

sometimes i'm possessed by an inexplicable urge to hear something, something that's familiar, because i start thinking about snow or mountains or europe or something along those lines. and then i remember what it is, and i head to youtube, and find some high-quality version of "human" by the killers. and blast it. because, for whatever reason, i connect the three days i spent with a host family in bregenz, austria, to that song. more specifically, i connect my morning routine (of washing my face, brushing my teeth, putting on my winter uniform with those very cozy leggings that supposedly kept my legs warm when we traveled up to the top of the alps, etc.) — spent in this austrian family's bathroom with heated floors — to the debated lyrics of that specific killers song. are we dancers? are we dancer? are we denser?

whatever. sometimes it's just fun to jam. which is why blasting this song on youtube for my roommate and myself inevitably turns into a lady gaga dance party.

tonight, unfortunately, we are dancing to "poker face" and harmonizing to "bad romance" to celebrate the last few days that "paparazzi"-gaga, clad in a metal dress and mugging (literally) for her mugshot, watches over us while we sleep.

It Tastes Like Dirt, But When I Say Dirt, I Mean It In A Good Way, Like Earth. I Should Have Said, "It Tastes Like Earth," But It's A Little Late Now.

I was going to begin this by describing the cup of coffee itself, which, at the time, was only half-full.
And now you see my predicament, of course. You see why I said "I was going to begin this..." instead of just beginning it.
Because everyone expects you to describe a cup of coffee that is, in fact, half filled with coffee and half filled with the absence of coffee, as either half-full or half-empty, but you, of all people, should know the connotations that each of those classifications carries.
I was going to begin this by mentioning that it was a half-full cup of coffee, but then they might say, "Well, she would say that, wouldn't she? Always the optimist, never the bride."
To which I would reply:
"I mean, hey, man, you know, I totally describe things as half-empty sometimes too, man. Fuck it, man, you don't even know, sometimes I describe things as completely empty, so just try and get at me, just try and get at my level, just try and tell me I'm one of those half-full bitches, go ahead, go ahead, go ahead."
I was going to begin this by describing the cup of coffee itself, which I didn't even have to do, really, considering that it isn't the point of the story. But it is! Oh, God, it is.
Because there was a police siren wailing in the distance, the distance that quickly became not-so-distant, not-so-distant to the point where I might have to go back and edit my phrasing to read, "there was a police siren wailing in the closeness."
And this cup of coffee, in its state of halfness, heard the siren, in its state of closeness, and took it in, took it in with such great generosity and openness, that it began to vibrate in my hands.
And so this cup of coffee was no longer half-full, half-empty, half-Jewish, half-heterosexual (which some might call bisexual, I suppose, but I'd call them wrong). It was filled to the brim with coffee and sound, which, remarkably, are not immiscible substances.
And it was so, so full, yet none of it spilled over the top.
It's the type of thing that makes you realize you've become addicted to coffee, addicted to sound, addicted to fullness.

biography of a face, memoir of a waist

in the bus station there was a homeless man on a bench. at least, i'm pretty sure he was homeless. yes, he must have been quite homeless. he met the requirements: tattered clothes, an aura of loneliness, boots that looked more sad than old. and he was sleeping in public.

with legs crossed at the ankles and arms spread and splayed, he was a bird caught at soaring altitude. to fly north again after a long winter or to head further south -- which one was logical? which was correct? the answer didn't matter; he chose to stay, to wait.

he didn't have glasses nor did he look comfortable. but here's the thing: his face was fluorescent. I will use a cliche so that you may understand: his face was utter porcelain. he had a totally clean and well-trimmed beard tucked in between his ears, two great hoods of eyes that matched the hue of his skin, and hair that almost met his shoulders. while on my way to the bathroom I noticed him; I cannot say I wasn't bewildered.

I don't quite know why the cleanliness of this man's face struck me as so significant. it wasn't for a reason as palpable as finding beauty in small places. it was more, perhaps, that it was the face I wanted, a face that remained comfortable and at peace while fixed in midair. as I boarded the bus I realized I was heading south to new york and would soon head back north. and I understood that there was something just plain good about hanging in suspension for a while longer than necessary. there's something about the view. there's something about what's lost. (there's always something lost.)

and so sometimes it's better to linger. here is how you should proceed: stand before the tightrope that hangs between two structures and look down at the street below. imagine yourself falling. does it feel better than you had expected? perhaps it's because the act is so natural: the invitation to roll down a hill, the observation of a plane in descent, the pouring of milk from a bottle. now stand with one foot secure and one outstretched and balanced. close your eyes or keep them open. feel the wind hit your back as it forks around your waist. wait for the music to cue you onward. do you see? sometimes this is better. better than a running start, better than the imminent tumble.

it's true, sometimes; you are your own worst enemy.

it's interesting how the mind can play tricks when it really wants to mess with you.

for instance, person x hints something that is somehow disagreeable to you (an insult to your person, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your mother, etc.). person x is an idiot.

when these thoughts are formulated by your own (sub)conscious, however, they're the long-awaited truth. you are hideous; your boyfriend is too good for this; your girlfriend is in love with someone else; your mother doesn't love you as much as she tells you she does.

thankfully, most of us are aware that our minds are evil things when they want to be and can work against our best interests sometimes. we learn to tell our brains to shut up, to stop being silly, because the sane parts of your brain know that those trickster thoughts are absolutely wrong. we adapt to this. sometimes we dismiss these thoughts without consciously being aware of what we're doing. it becomes second nature.

but our minds know where we're most vulnerable, and sometimes, they just enjoy watching us suffer. they will pick out the smallest comments, thoughts, emotions, etc. from throughout the day and store them in our subconscious — not for our dreams, but for those half-dreams we have as we fall into and out of sleep, those hazy moments where everything and nothing simultaneously seems real. those two points in our nightly routine render us paralyzed, unable to move or turn away or open our eyes, because we're already too far gone or still too far invested in sleeping that we don't want to get out of it, no matter what sorts of terrors our minds are constructing for us. and this is the point when the terrors do exist, when the soundless images become real, when your worst fears become reality and there's nothing you can do to escape them. and when you wake up crying, you know why.

usually, though, you'll forget everything within ten minutes of awakening. your cheeks will still be damp, you'll be filled with an overwhelming sense of depression and loneliness that you can't seem to shake, one that will ultimately render you inconsolable.

forgotten terrors are the worst sort.