and nightmarish reality.

anyone who knows anything about me knows i'm overly sentimental, which often results in tears. particularly on trains surrounded by businessmen (let's not even talk about my experience with dubliners on the 5:04).

on today's 4:42, i tried to call my father to respond to his voicemail to let him know that i knew that mom knew that the two of us (dad and i) wouldn't be on the same train. who knows what was going on with his cell phone, because it rang and rang and didn't even offer the option of leaving a voicemail, so i called his office again and sat through the boring medical disclaimer and explanation of what he does (if this is an emergency, call...). while i listened to the message, however, i could feel my eyes well up. god knows i'll never forget the way my father's voice sounds, but there will come a point where i will no longer be able to hear that rush, that intake of breath between clauses and sentences that familiarity has caused me to ignore in daily conversation. it's the simplest sign of life, the exasperated breaths between frustrated sentences, the quiet sounds of inhalation and exhalation on the other end of the phone when two people have momentarily run out of things to say. but there's comfort in those noises, those reminders that yes, i'm still here, i'm still with you, you can hear me breathe, part of you is keeping me alive.

my greatest fear is being utterly alone — it plagued my sleepless nights during high school and the first half of this first year of college; i couldn't fathom what would become of me when the only people who loved me unconditionally would be gone. the thought of being permanently without my parents still frightens me, but less so, so that it's slightly bearable and hardly keeps me up at night anymore. still, i know a day will come when i will wake up and my heartbeat will be supported by my breathing alone, and i will be breathing alone, without a source of comfort, without someone whose slow breaths and quiet heartbeat will be there to reassure me i'm here, i'm here, i'm here. and i wonder how god could be so cruel.

psychic nightmares.

i tend to pride myself on my ability to remember my dreams. it's a rare skill, so i'm told, so i embrace as much of it as i can. sometimes i remember to write them down, usually in a little notebook i've kept around since late 04/early 05 full of early-teenage-girl ramblings, nonsensical daydreams, minute-by-minute crushes, and eventual goals. i'm forced to handle it with care, since the first 35 or so pages are completely separated from the binding, but i haven't lost any as of yet. now i use it to calculate how much out-of-pocket money i'll need to pay when splitting purchases between gift cards, or to plan class schedules and write out call numbers, or to make little lists of books (authors, really) i'm asked to buy.

but that's irrelevant. i was talking about dreams. anyway.

i'm also a little (okay, maybe very) superstitious, and — yes, i mean this, and yes, i'm crazy — i believe i'm a touch psychic. i'm not surprised that i sound psychotic when i write this out. but really, i mean it. maybe i remember my dreams so i recognize when they're turned into reality. recognizing things i've already dreamt of is a much different feeling than déjà vu is — the latter is very heady, like my mind has separated itself from my body and i only have a few seconds to figure out why i've done all of this before. recognizing my dreams is less like watching a scene from an old movie i should know and more like wondering why i didn't make the connection between my dream and reality in the first place. i'm trying to articulate how it feels in a way that would make the most sense, but i'm rambling, and i figure it's nonsensical, so i'll just leave it at the idea that i'm crazy and have magical powers to see into the future. i wish it was more exciting than recognizing building façades and mundane conversations. whatever.

i suppose that's why i can be afraid of my dreams. my nightmares aren't exotic — i can't remember them ever being so — but they're so vastly steeped in potential reality that i can't shake them out of my mind once i wake up. i worry mostly that segments of them are portents of what is to come. but they're really run-of-the-mill things when you get down to them; frightening, but never life-threatening.

recently, there was the early morning hallucination of three men in my room, one deep, harsh voice telling the others she's asleep, the feeling of clumsy, forceful hands sneaking themselves between the covers to grab a hold of my right hip and inner thigh, the terror at trying to scream and finding myself unable to, the cold rush of adrenaline as i woke up to realize i had only been dreaming.

a few days ago, i became trapped in that world of half-sleep (when you know things aren't real but you can't help dreaming them anyway) only to be subjected to images of bodies, touching and caressing each other against walls, on streetcorners, by stairwells, anywhere familiar enough to make be believe their reality.

and then there was the old man, restored to senses, back from the dead, dressed in a navy suit and sitting in his favorite chair. i took one look at him and burst into tears.

"how did he look?"

"fine. normal."

"did he say anything?"

"no."

"did he look at you?"

"no."

"did he say that the end was near?"

"no."

"did he give you the winning lottery numbers?"

"no."

"oh. well. are you sure he didn't say anything?"

it is this last dream — ironically, the least "frightening" of the nightmares — that frightened me the most. perhaps, i thought, it was because the strange way the details of the dream are so imprinted in my mind (i can tell you exactly what dress i was wearing, how many buttons of it were done up, how the bow in the back was a little off-center because i always tend to favor the right). perhaps i didn't know how to deal with my grandfather being back from the dead, silently sitting in the corner of the apartment as if nothing had ever happened, as if he had been kept up-to-date with my life, as if whatever celebration i was at in my grandparents' apartment was nothing out of the ordinary. perhaps because i could sense that in his silence, something was wrong. naturally, i assumed the fault was mine, and what could grandpa be mad at me for from the grave?

and then, all at once, it hit me: he wasn't angry, but overwhelmingly sad. i burst into tears in front of him because he didn't speak. and he didn't speak because i can no longer hear nor remember the sound of his voice.

variation on a dream

this morning I woke from a nightmare. as is custom with nearly everything, whether it's a nightmare or a simple reverie is a matter of perspective. do serial killers deem certain dreams nightmares according to a postman's standard? to an obsessive compulsive's? to a priest's? to my own?

on the prophet muhammad's final day, he fell into unconsciousness and saw that he was in paradise. a voice spoke and gave him an option: he could live here, in paradise, with the voice. or, he could remain on earth, with his family and land. when he awoke, he had chosen the former, and he died moments later. if a staunch atheist experienced this call, would it be a nightmare? was it even a dream in the first place?

this morning I woke from a nightmare. in the nightmare, I was in a house of murderous psychopaths. (I will pause here. It both comforts and frightens me that you must know this image, this feeling. I am sure you have spent similar nights in your head. i'm sorry. but look at it this way: _________.) I was in the house's kitchen, throwing metal forks at one of these oncoming murderous psychopaths; metal forks were the only effective weapons, as stated by the science community at large (I had probably seen this on a stirring installment of NOVA). but I was losing. I kept missing; the forks were ineffective; the psychopath laughed at my plight. the psychopath, who was a woman, advanced with a knife, a small one. the knife was not particularly chilling. it was more the look in her eyes, or rather, the absence of a look. I called to my brother, who was sitting on a nearby staircase: mike, uh, can you help me out here? he did not hesitate: why don't you just wake up?

this morning I woke from a nightmare. once, my mother told me about a nightmare of hers, a recurring one. in the nightmare, we (my family) are trapped in a red jeep we used to own. we have careened off the coronado bridge (location: california) and we are drowning in the pacific ocean. the doors are locked and the windows will not break. we cannot hear each other's voices; they are gurgles and purls; they are imperceptible.

as I write this, my dog, an english springer spaniel who today has turned eight, lies next to me. her voice is lost in translation, a pant, a bark, a murmur of her soul, and yet I love her.

this morning I woke from a nightmare.

"Why Yes, I Did Return From Israel A Few Days Ago, Yet I Won't Be Reflecting On That Right Now, No Sir": Installment #1.

This photo frightens me.



This photo frightens me because I've seen photos like this before.

And the people in all of those photos are dead.

yann at the door

I started writing seriously when I was nineteen, yann martel shares in a collection of writing, this is my best. it is not his own collection; it is a collective. authors who span different genres -- the comic, the visual, the scientific, the fictional, the political -- share what they think is their finest display of self. I wrote a play about a young man who falls in love with a door. oh! the beauty of a mind young and ready to conquer, ready to set fire onto stone. when a friend finds out and destroys the door, our hero commits suicide. the sadness of things. it was as bad as it sounds. but was it really that bad? the first step was a capital step for me because, for the first time in my life, I wrote something for its own sake; that is, the sake of art. yann, (do you mind if I call you yann? would mr. martel be better? no? okay, good. thanks.) i've been dying to ask you; I need to know. that door you wrote about, the one that was worth self-annihilation, was it closed? was it open? I bet it was neither; I bet it was both; I bet it was nothing. a door forever opening and closing, a door too intricate to know: its knob, its make, its grain. and where was the door located? the gate to a closet packed with clothes? the entrance to a pantry? was it at the front of the house? out back? I bet it was neither; I bet it was both; I bet it was nothing. I bet it was your heart, the opening of your soul, the mouth of a river. I bet it was everything.

the woman with the floral print

I'm cleaning a table at the restaurant and an older woman, her short-sleeved shirt spotted with flowers, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, says hello. she has finished chewing her asparagus. she takes a sip of water. has it been busy here? yes, I say. it gets busy when the weather is nice. oh, that's good, she says, I can see that and that's good. this woman must have owned a pet rock in the 70's. she'd talk to anything, whether that anything was breathing or not. she needs companionship in a way that is sad.

because this economy, she says. it's not like it used to be. no it is not. I travel up-country and it's all bad, it's all hard to figure out. she is not talking about the economy. she is not talking about the weather. she is not talking about her clothes.there's no more going home, she says. you know that saying? yes. there's no more of that.

i'd like this to end.

just when i thought, hey, great, i finally figured out how to sleep through the night and be a normal human being when i wake up (for the record, i suddenly remembered my anxiety-ridden, sleepless nights during my junior and senior years of high school, and recalled that i made it through by allowing the voices of old british men to lull me to sleep as they pretended to be magical creatures), just when that happened, i came home to find my room smelling of pipe smoke. i have no idea why.

but really, world? you know what this does to me. i'd appreciate a break. just for a few days. then you can keep me up all night and keep me depressed however you'd like to.

but pipe smoke? goddamnit. i hate everything.

But You Know The Epitaph Would Be Something Like "Here Lies Katie, A Charmin Woman Through And Through."

When I was six, I was afraid of dying whilst sitting on a toilet, because how humiliating, I thought, how humiliating would it be to be found dead when you weren't even wearing any pants?

Now, I'm just afraid of dying, period.

Six year-old Katie was so much braver than twenty year-old Katie will ever be.

To Womb It May Concern: An Open Letter To The Jackass Who Thought That It Would Be A Good Idea To Give Me Ovaries.

Fig. 1: Recent Evidence.

Dear Journal,

Phew, what a week it's been! Lemme tell ya, guys, I was pretty busy! Doing what? Well, like, only all of this!

- Racing boys half my age and twice my size on the track by the East River!
- Climbing scaffolding and vaulting over walls in SoHo! Parkour, bitches!
- Playing Assassin's Creed II!
- Reading graphic novels, webcomic archives, and back issues of Wired Magazine!
- Working at the World Science Festival!
- Watching free porn!
- Jacking off! A lot!
- Fantasizing about gender reassignment surgery!

Well, I've gotta go now. Victoria's Secret is having a huge sale, and you know how much I love walking in there like I'm gonna buy something (HAHA YEAH RIGHT) only to spend my time checking out the hotties instead!

Peace!
Katie

Fig. 2: By Request.

If there’s a God, I hope that he’s an asshole.

See, if I weren’t constrained by the limits of mortality and morality, I’d channel my divine energy into an attempt to be as douchey as possible, I’m talking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Douche; the Douche Almighty; one Douche, forever and ever, A-fucking-men.

The God that I believe in wears baseball caps and boxers and wife beaters and, yes, he calls them wife beaters without worrying about offending anyone.

The God that I believe in spends his Saturday nights playing poker with Satan, and spends his Sunday mornings drinking crappy black coffee and leafing through vintage issues of Playboy and jerking off like it’s his job.

The God that I believe in isn’t a father figure, or a Father Christmas figure, or a Father Time figure. He’s actually that uncle that no one invited to the family reunion, and it feels like he’s always watching you because he is.

The God that I believe is a projection of the part of myself that I’m too much of a pussy to show anyone else, or perhaps a manifestation of the insecurity that drives me to overcompensate by peppering my language with words like “pussy,” and “manifestation,” and “overcompensate” and “peppering.”

I’m inclined to think of God as the manliest of men for the same reason that I tend to immediately picture cleft chins and strong jawlines and robust facial hair and dicks when I hear the terms “Wall Street” and “Doctor” and “Lawyer” and “President.”

I don’t know what that reason is.

Which is a complete lie, because I know exactly what it is, but I’m too ashamed to admit that sixty percent of the time, I’d rather be a misogynist than a feminist, or that seventy-five percent of the time, I’d rather be living a world that I created than in one that I didn’t, or that ninety-eight percent of the time, I’d rather be an Adam than an Eve.

It’s like this: I buy my coffee from a man who looks like Jesus Christ. He always uses way too much sugar, but I figure it’s okay because he resembles a man who died for all of our sins. And because, if he were a woman, I know that I’d equate her liberal use of sweetener with the fact that dumb bitches have been screwing up since the first bite of that apple.

When I’m stroking my chin, it looks like I'm thinking.

I’m actually just hoping that, someday, I’ll feel stubble.

Fig. 3: What Now?

the epitome of my darker parts.

"why am i so depressed. why am i in this mood. why can't i sleep anymore."

"write it."

"write what."

"just write down your dreams."

"i don't remember them now."

"i know that, i meant write them down once you wake up. get it out of you."

i have no words to describe what i'm feeling right now. i'm afraid of everything. i'm terrified of being lonely, but really like being alone.

i hate that i time will come when i will be the only thing left of my family.

it's rather obnoxious how often i find myself crying. but actually.

i have everything i could want. this time last year, i wanted everything that i now have. perhaps that's part of my problem. i have too much. i'm caught up in stasis and realize that my problems (rather, "problems") are jack shit compared to all that's going on in the rest of the world. i mean, come on, self, suck it up.

i would like to find some sidewalk cafe and just sit there for hours and hours.

i really would like — still, after all of these years — to come from old money. with debutantes and unnecessary pretension (though that seems redundant) and chateaus and drinks at the algonquin and champagne at the waldorf and a suite at the plaza and floor-length gowns and elbow-high gloves and all those other stereotypical things. i romanticize the past. all of it. i always have. hell, i romanticize everything.

i guess what i really want is to be a member of new york's high society during the late 1940s.

or, at the very least, i wish that society still existed. it was beautiful. and i am stuck in a world that, day after day, crushes the last few beautiful things it has.

i love finding beauty in the small things. i suppose the fear that's gripping me this time is that i'm losing my ability to do so.

falling

some years ago, in a wal-mart that has since been abandoned, I shopped for white socks and plaid boxer shorts with my mother. it was really just my mother shopping, though, as my brother and I played in the clothing racks, some game that is only familiar to the young. then there was a fall, a big man with brown hair and glasses, who fell straight back and lay on the ground, supine. he grunted on the way down. when he hit the floor, the noise emitted was between a smack and a thump. my brother and I watched, amazed and confused, as staff and customers rushed the scene, shouting directions to each other. we ventured back to our mother and her shopping cart, and argued over who would get to ride the carriage, feet on the front wheel bar, hands gripping the sides.

laughing with jen

my babysitter of ten years once mistook mold in her vanilla custard yogurt as cute little candies. she taught me how to chuck a frisbee, how to pirouette underneath the spinning disc and catch it on the top of my index finger, how to snap the wrist. and she cultivated my interest in farce rock, viz., the barenaked ladies (one week, if I had a million dollars, etc.)

she asked my brother and me to roll the white runway down the aisle of st. peter's church during her wedding. when the material snagged on my side of the pew. she smiled. later, at the reception, she danced with my brother; they performed their choreographed steps to van morrison's brown eyed girl. the origin of these moves can be traced back to my family room, the summer, the stereo. she had brown eyes.

I danced like an epileptic on fire.

her husband, john, built their house by hand. before it was livable, they squatted in the shed in her mother's backyard. the two are in the midst of raising three daughters. she said, watching a weather person reporting in a hurricane always makes me laugh.