i have gotten out from under the absolutely unstoppable avalanche of library holds that all turned up at the same time with an unexpected assist from nordstrom rack; when i was in california with my mom earlier this month i tried on some readers in the sunglasses display and lo, the fine print on the other glasses' tags leapt into almost aggressively sharp focus. turns out my book light wasn't on the fritz and i wasn't dying, or dying significantly faster than most of us are, anyway; i just can't see for shit now. i've kind of been waiting to wear glasses all my life, and i certainly spent enough time wearing clear ones recreationally to deserve this; it's fine. in the zombie apocalypse i would run out of blood pressure pills and go down even if presbyopia didn't lead me to miss a telltale lurch behind a burned-out car, so it's not like my long-term outcomes are super different now anyway. it is a little creepy that text without glasses now looks like pure fuzz–i was compensating enough to be none the wiser until that fateful day at The Rack–but we fall apart very slowly and then all at once, i guess.
it's time to revisit ye children's book draft and come up with a deal-sealing version that will win hearts and minds in the publishing industry and put jo and me on the path to creative nirvana. i have continued to keep my work calendar mostly free of more-creative projects to leave mental room for this, though i'm tired and scattered enough that i don't have much to fill that room with just yet. it's a little scary that i saw my family in california mere hours after my most recent call with maybe-editor (who has also seen the pee-wee documentary and knew what i was talking about when i brought it up!) and had difficulty describing her feedback in detail–but i took notes, so maybe it doesn't matter?
i had my yearly physical last month and received a handy-dandy little chart of how my humors have performed over the last decade or so. i can't say i was surprised, but it was still sobering (no pun intended) to see the dips and spikes in 2021, my first checkup after lockdown, like a tree's ring after drought or wildfire. i now enjoy something like consistent health, the fact that i'm becoming a mole person notwithstanding. i have three more half marathons and a five-miler before the end of the year; i have a novel i don't remember requesting waiting for me at seward park. it's the most wonderful time of the year.
08.16.25 [on the J train; out-of-order, found-my-journal update]
what i'd hoped would be a neurotic account of yesterday's long-awaited meeting wtih my (and my sister's?!) maybe-editor must instead simply be a neurotic account of more waiting; she had a plausible kid-emergency yesterday morning (and probably the night before) that led her to ask for a bump to this coming friday instead. and that should be great, my sister and i can be more prepared! hell, we're so prepared it might even make strategic sense for me to mention our non-negotiable partnership and send over proof that it's undeniable (i.e. some character sketches to show range and a well-considered mockup of the page-by-page illustrations with my text) before we talk! that's my new hunch, but i'm still so nervous about spooking this editor before she's all in on the project. there's so much i don't know–like, i thought it was a selling point that i wrote the thing in verse (what she'd said in her original note to me was that "it doesn't even have to rhyme," which, since the catchphrase that inspired her reaching out does indeed rhyme, meant that i assumed it was a plus). now as i'm looking up potential agents a bunch of them note up front that they don't want rhyming picture books, and that led me to a bunch of articles about how resistant gatekeepers like agents and editors are to verse. this seems to be because most of it is shitty, but i have a real knack for assuming my own stuff is shitty until i have incontrovertible proof otherwise. oh god, what if it is shitty! but maybe-editor seemed to really like the first draft, and the second is much stronger, and i know i need to push. my sister had a crisis of confidence a week ago when she realized this maybe-editor is with a big-deal publisher and then she checked out a bunch of illustrators' portfolios as linked from their book agents' pages–a classic way to psych yourself out, comparing your nascent stuff to stuff that beat the odds and worked after lots of folks polished it–and i tried to hype her back up with perspective, which she turned around and did for me when i freaked the fuck out yesterday. another reason it's wonderful to work with someone i trust completely!
bearing in mind that this will make me sound like a maniac, i was thinking about our project as i watched pee-wee as himself this week. paul reubens came around to realizing performance art for children was exactly what he was meant to be doing, presenting them with infinite possibilities and influencing how they would grow up and express themselves was everything, and he was unapologetically odd and uncompromising as he made that happen. and he was (apparently incredibly difficult to work with and) right! he had grace fucking jones in issey miyake on his christmas special! (not totally synonymous with anarchic childhood but god i love her.) and the verse is good, it's serious and affectionate and the kind of thing that's a pleasure to read and hear, and this illustrated place that so few people (and pretty much no kids) get to see is so singular in the world we're trying so hard to join...i really hope it's as special as i think it is, on my best days. i really thought my piece about black magic performed with trader joe's products was undeniable as well, though, and it fell completely flat. not the same thing, i know, but i sure do love to revisit my failures. poking old scabs! all the old scabs!
bearing in mind that this will make me sound like a maniac, i was thinking about our project as i watched pee-wee as himself this week. paul reubens came around to realizing performance art for children was exactly what he was meant to be doing, presenting them with infinite possibilities and influencing how they would grow up and express themselves was everything, and he was unapologetically odd and uncompromising as he made that happen. and he was (apparently incredibly difficult to work with and) right! he had grace fucking jones in issey miyake on his christmas special! (not totally synonymous with anarchic childhood but god i love her.) and the verse is good, it's serious and affectionate and the kind of thing that's a pleasure to read and hear, and this illustrated place that so few people (and pretty much no kids) get to see is so singular in the world we're trying so hard to join...i really hope it's as special as i think it is, on my best days. i really thought my piece about black magic performed with trader joe's products was undeniable as well, though, and it fell completely flat. not the same thing, i know, but i sure do love to revisit my failures. poking old scabs! all the old scabs!
01.31.26 [on the J train]
if it would bother you to know about the most notable dream-logic elements of the secret agent, the very good brazilian 2026 oscar contender about dictatorship, stop reading now; if that doesn't feel deal-breaky and/or your memory is bald-tired like mine, know that i woke up thinking about the two-faced cat (conjoined cats?) that move/s through its recife apartment building/hideout. for the most part the filmmakers went with practical effects – there's another sequence where a severed leg reanimates, saint's-limb-performing-a-miracle-style, and kicks a bunch of people cruising for sex in a public park, and that's all stop-motion animation – but the cat/s is/are CGI, i think? there's a blur to its/their face that i associate with the progressive lenses i got a couple months ago and still haven't worn enough to see through without a bit of vertigo. as i was trying and failing to get a good night's sleep before this morning's train ride to clinic escorting, i mused that i'm pretty okay with a bit of dream logic in most movies now; half the time the news reads like something my brain riffed as i nodded off anyway.
i'm starting to wonder if i need to pick a role and stick to it when it comes to...the news? i rolled out for protest monitoring three times this month and feel like i'm finally settling into meaningful contributions; i know what to film and how to make my observations useful, i can be conspicuous in a way that feels like it deters institutional overreach, and i can recognize and work with cops' and protesters' behavior patterns. but i'm also scheduled to train up with a nascent neighborhood rapid-response patrol today, to be more like the observers deterring federal agents in minnesota, and i don't know that i should do both. does it matter that local law enforcement and i recognize each other now, as the anti-abortion haranguers i might or might not see on the sidewalk in 15 minutes and i do? it's way too late for me to wear a mask, and i'm sure i'm on plenty of lists. but i am relatively safe and it's my responsibility to spend down as much of that privilege as i can, right? in any case, more training is always a good idea; i would be the hypercompetent elinor smith of this moment, not the amelia earhart whose bravery and luck become a fatal talisman. that's what elinor seemed to conclude about amelia, anyway. she didn't go so far as to call her intentionally underprepared, but she did seem to think she was performing courage for herself. no, i still don't know if i'm going to write a book about that.
i'm starting to wonder if i need to pick a role and stick to it when it comes to...the news? i rolled out for protest monitoring three times this month and feel like i'm finally settling into meaningful contributions; i know what to film and how to make my observations useful, i can be conspicuous in a way that feels like it deters institutional overreach, and i can recognize and work with cops' and protesters' behavior patterns. but i'm also scheduled to train up with a nascent neighborhood rapid-response patrol today, to be more like the observers deterring federal agents in minnesota, and i don't know that i should do both. does it matter that local law enforcement and i recognize each other now, as the anti-abortion haranguers i might or might not see on the sidewalk in 15 minutes and i do? it's way too late for me to wear a mask, and i'm sure i'm on plenty of lists. but i am relatively safe and it's my responsibility to spend down as much of that privilege as i can, right? in any case, more training is always a good idea; i would be the hypercompetent elinor smith of this moment, not the amelia earhart whose bravery and luck become a fatal talisman. that's what elinor seemed to conclude about amelia, anyway. she didn't go so far as to call her intentionally underprepared, but she did seem to think she was performing courage for herself. no, i still don't know if i'm going to write a book about that.
01.24.26 [on the J train]
i left the apartment with an extra giddy-up in my step to make it to the library before heading out to queens this morning, as i was not interested in having the shards in my life for another day or two. i don't remember bret easton ellis being that bad — i don't remember much about rules of engagement, honestly, though i know i preferred donna tartt's the secret history if we're ranking fictionalized-bennington novels — but hoo, friends. it did entertain me that a key scene went down at crystal cove, the park/beach due west of my dad's place to which i repair when visiting the OC, and his fixation on ultravox's "vienna" did inspire me to watch the banger of a video and then pick up the demonic lafufu i found on the giveaway heap in our laundry room, which i steeped in boiling water and woolite and have added to the rotation of creatures that join me via my tote bag for protest monitoring and reproductive health clinic escorting, and that's not nothing. do i need to read less than zero or, like, american psycho? my library-holds queue threw a four-book clot last week, so i won't be doing it any time soon, at least.
i got a bitchy letter from the blood bank saying that, per the FDA, i was nearing the limit of what one can safely donate over the course of a year and won't be allowed back until mid-march, maybe i could do them a favor and be a little more mindful of my schedule in the future? i called to contest that, as i was/am way under the max of 24 platelet draws at least a week apart that their literature mentions. as the aggrieved gal at their call center explained, my donations had all been triples, as the techs are directed to optimize donors' visits. "and your platelet count has been going up over time," she said in an accusatory way. are you blood-shaming me, lady?! i tried to suggest, respectfully, that the letter's patronizing wording and tone were perhaps at cross-purposes with their center's aims, and that it was challenging to keep pacing in mind when i received weekly texts about critical platelet shortages i alone could resolve and also wasn't informed that i was up in Ye Threefold Bloodlettings, but i don't think she was interested in being receptive to me, and that was not a me problem.
on bloodlettings, luc besson made a dracula! i don't know much yet, but the romantic trappings and mars attacks!-adjacent vamp-coiffing suggest it'll be francis-ford-coppola-ish, and more of that energy in 2026, please. in other news of the not-traditionally-alive, we saw 28 years later: the bone temple despite my worry that it would hurt my feelings (a fear i also had and was later sheepish about with the first 28 years later movie) and holy shit, that's the most fortifying business i've seen in ages. absolutely everything about ralph fiennes's character was delightful (inspired, i dug around this week for iron maiden 50th-anniversary tour tickets and would have planned a trip around a show, were they not some $400 and up per seat), and i burst into tears at the last line. it's fortifying to watch the zombie metaphor evolve past capitalism and fascism to whatever this is; i'm really hoping danny boyle can land the plane with the final movie in the cycle. i was reminded of the harbinger, the COVID-in-new-york-city movie that unpicked experiencing the pandemic here for me, and i dearly love to see genre films meeting their moments. i'm almost tempted to hang around and try to talk the local horror folks into letting me volunteer for their film festival again this year (they absolutely didn't need the extra hands and were humoring me last year, the softies).
i got a bitchy letter from the blood bank saying that, per the FDA, i was nearing the limit of what one can safely donate over the course of a year and won't be allowed back until mid-march, maybe i could do them a favor and be a little more mindful of my schedule in the future? i called to contest that, as i was/am way under the max of 24 platelet draws at least a week apart that their literature mentions. as the aggrieved gal at their call center explained, my donations had all been triples, as the techs are directed to optimize donors' visits. "and your platelet count has been going up over time," she said in an accusatory way. are you blood-shaming me, lady?! i tried to suggest, respectfully, that the letter's patronizing wording and tone were perhaps at cross-purposes with their center's aims, and that it was challenging to keep pacing in mind when i received weekly texts about critical platelet shortages i alone could resolve and also wasn't informed that i was up in Ye Threefold Bloodlettings, but i don't think she was interested in being receptive to me, and that was not a me problem.
on bloodlettings, luc besson made a dracula! i don't know much yet, but the romantic trappings and mars attacks!-adjacent vamp-coiffing suggest it'll be francis-ford-coppola-ish, and more of that energy in 2026, please. in other news of the not-traditionally-alive, we saw 28 years later: the bone temple despite my worry that it would hurt my feelings (a fear i also had and was later sheepish about with the first 28 years later movie) and holy shit, that's the most fortifying business i've seen in ages. absolutely everything about ralph fiennes's character was delightful (inspired, i dug around this week for iron maiden 50th-anniversary tour tickets and would have planned a trip around a show, were they not some $400 and up per seat), and i burst into tears at the last line. it's fortifying to watch the zombie metaphor evolve past capitalism and fascism to whatever this is; i'm really hoping danny boyle can land the plane with the final movie in the cycle. i was reminded of the harbinger, the COVID-in-new-york-city movie that unpicked experiencing the pandemic here for me, and i dearly love to see genre films meeting their moments. i'm almost tempted to hang around and try to talk the local horror folks into letting me volunteer for their film festival again this year (they absolutely didn't need the extra hands and were humoring me last year, the softies).
01.01.26
2026: THE YEAR IN REVIEW
i ran six miles.
i watched part of mamdani's public inauguration.
i ate half a burrito.
i took a nap.
i found a hole in my sweater.
i wore fingerless gloves.
i walked across the williamsburg bridge.
i ordered leeks vinaigrette.
i loaded three washing machines.
i emptied the dishwasher.
i ran six miles.
i watched part of mamdani's public inauguration.
i ate half a burrito.
i took a nap.
i found a hole in my sweater.
i wore fingerless gloves.
i walked across the williamsburg bridge.
i ordered leeks vinaigrette.
i loaded three washing machines.
i emptied the dishwasher.
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