july forecast

As of right now, the high is supposed to be 97 degrees when I arrive in Austin on Thursday. This is not good. However, the high is supposed to be 85 degrees when I get to Tuscola next Tuesday, and that's not too bad.
I am basically going on a flight extravaganza:
(this is what happens when you must book cheapest flight, ie lots of layovers)
Thursday: Savannah-Atlanta-DFW-Austin
Tuesday: Austin-Chicago-Springfield (then 90 minute drive to Tuscola)
Tuesday next: (90 minute drive out of Tuscola) Springfield-Chicago-Atlanta-Savannah

So many planes. I will be gone a total of twelve days, which translates to twelve days of no Charlie. I am very sad about this. And twelve days without Savannah friends. But . . .

it also translates to five days of Robert and a week of mom/Katie/new lil baby/kittens at home. So it will be worth it. But I will be exhausted when I come home. And really really really hot.

In other news not related (yet intimately related, really) to me, the new Animal Collective video for "Summertime Clothes" is out and it is totally goofy but at this point I'm not sure they could do wrong.



And as a special bonus, the Page 6 blurb from the day we had lunch in Michael's in New York:
http://www.nypost.com/seven/06192009/gossip/pagesix/sightings_174956.htm

Just got this Facebook message:

[caption] i recently cut my hair off

hi my name is michael. im a nice sweet genorous and loving person ill b 20 this week. i have a 19 month old son im single, and im looking for a a nice woman who is very respectible, independent but also not afraid to ask for help when needed. just someone who is beautiful in the inside. im in the process of becoming a police officer. email me and we can get to know each other a little better. my email is xx@gmail.com. im really just looking to find my true love

I should feel flattered that for some unknown reason this person felt compelled to send this to me. Instead I feel self-pity because of the kind of person I apparently attract (this message is not a first of its kind, for one example, recent terrible dates for another example) which leads me to have a feeling of insurmountable bitchiness for being so judgey.

Oh well!

NEWYORKNEWYORKNEWYORKNEWYORK

Listen friends:
So much happened this past week in New York that I do not even know where to begin, how to describe it, etc etc. I learned so much, experienced so much, laughed a lot, cried a little, drank a lot, got lost a lot, was in awe of everything most of the time and basically it was unbelievable and amazing. I don't even have more than a handful of pictures from the week - very strange for me - because I was so enamored with everything that was happening that I continually forgot to document it in any way other than in my Moleskine.
Now I'm in a writing frenzy. And it feels so good.

Whoa, I've got a niece now?

It's true, I do indeed have a niece. Natalie Lillian Zimmerman. That's 9 syllables. I haven't met her, but I will in a couple of weeks. She seems tiny tiny and I'm actually genuinely excited to fulfill my role as "cool aunt," which I've always wanted over "[any adjective] mom." A couple of pictures:

I have not spent any amount of significant time with a child under the age of 1 (maybe under the age of 5, even? no one comes to mind) so it should be interesting.

Church on a Monday

Disclaimer: Corny stuff/NERD ALERT ahead:

I'm not a religious person and I guess I never have been. Even when I was too young to really be self-aware enough to know whether or not I was religious, I hated the idea of church and Sunday School. So early in the morning . . . so goddamn boring . . . and I specifically remember feeling sort of silly the entire time for whatever reason. Though, again, if I were religious I'd probably think church was cool (or at least bearable).
That being said . . . Monday night I stood right in front of a chanting figure towering over me and white linen cloth, so unbelievably grand that I could hardly look straight at Him at first . . . all three figures made me stand with my mouth open in awe, made me sway, made me choke up, made me feel so content and O.K. and made me the most consistently happy since January. There were moments when He flipped up His wet hair and His sweat landed on my skin, when I heard Him mutter things to Himself ("goddammit" "1, 1, 1, O.K."), when He knelt closer to my level and I could feel waves of His body heat. And even better, there are THREE He's in this situation, raising and lowering their voices together, moving together in sync and sometimes too fast to even be seen. And the He that towered right above me . . . I stared and stared at Him, absolutely loving Him and every single move He made, bewildered by how He could possibly do what He was doing, humbled by being so physically close to Him. I really was worshiping Him, all of the Hims, and for the first time I think I might have understood how some people can really lose themselves and go crazy in the presence of a power that they give themselves up to.
Basically what I'm saying is . . . Monday night's Animal Collective concert was unbelievably amazing, best concert I've been to. There was a moment in Brother Sport, which, naturally, seemed to go on forever, where I could literally feel Panda Bear's voice pumping through my heart (I can't emphasize enough how close I was to him) and I got this feeling, sort of lightheaded, that I could only describe as, "open." To be absolutely completely honest, the last time I had that exact same feeling was when I lost my virginity, still less than a year ago. It was weird, I would never have even been able to remember that exact feeling from then if that moment in Brother Sport hadn't happened. I could not care less how melodramatic/dorky/corny all of this sounds because the entire experience was so amazing, I don't know how else to describe it.
Geologist (far left of the stage)


Avey Tare (middle of the stage)


Panda Bear (far right of the stage - right in front of me)

Absolute Porn Faux Pas

Advertising something on a box of porn . . .whether on the front of the box or the back of the box, that is nowhere to be found anywhere in the actual pornographic video, is really a terrible crime against all of humanity and should be regulated and stopped now, for everyone's sake.

When Jon Penn and I start our porn box business (he designs, I write descriptions) this will never ever happen. 

P.S. Our company is to be called DixonPenn. It works on so many levels.

Forecast for June + Graduation

June:

8th-9th: St. Petersburg with Ben and Coleman for Animal Collective

10th: Move Goblin Manor couch into our apartment, so no more sinking into our couch and getting poked with stray springs

11th(ish): Sister has a baby

14th-20th: New York with Adam Davies + 3 other writing students

22nd: David Sedaris book signing

LONG AWESOME MONTH.

In other news, many of my friends graduated. Including, but not limited to: Ben, Allie, everyone at Goblin Manor, Colleen, Katie, Lesley, Kendall, Dash, Tandy, Dan Hood, Charlie (boy, not cat)...basically a shitload of friends. Bittersweet, really. 

Therapy?

Quick list of modern voices I find soothing:

- Thom Yorke

- Noah Lennox

- Wayne Coyne

- Jónsi Birgisson'

- Jeff Tweedy

- Sia Furler

- Rufus Wainwright

- Jenny Lewis

- Hope Sandoval

- Ed Droste

- Owen Pallett

- Kevin Drew

- Ben Gibbard

- Chan Marshall

- Tracyanne Campbell

- Kevin Griffin

- Ben Folds

- Maria Taylor

- Andrew Bird

all for now.

Oh, a curb

I hit a curb today and got a flat tire. The real tragedy was that I was meeting everyone for dinner after Nonfiction III and was subsequently hungry as fuck. I was rounding around a corner of a square onto Bay Street when two large tourists stepped out right in front of my car. I stopped and turned a little, hit the curb, and heard a pop. I don't actually know what happened. A valet from a hotel across the street ran up to my car and I rolled down my window.

"You got a flat tire?" He wasn't asking me, but he raised his voice at the end of the sentence enough.

"Are you serious?"

"You hit that curb?" So I pulled into East Bay Inn, called AAA, and got really angry. The whole ordeal took close to two hours and also decided to happen on the one day in May in Savannah when it decided to get cold and I had to stand outside in said cold while my tire was changed. I instantly thought the tire-changer was cute until:

Tire-changer: Whoa, how old are you?

Me: 21.

Tire-changer: Oh man, I thought you were like 17.

Everyone thinks I look 15!!! This is a great improvement, really.

Also the last Goblin Manor party occurred on Saturday. Theoretically it was bittersweet but it was actually so fucking fun.

Choice PIXXX:

GoblinManor4Ever

Friends and AC

Look at these friends!!!:

A BOBCAT KITTEN AND A FAWN.

COLEMAN AND BEN AND CHARLIE.

DASH AND CHASE AND BRIAN AND JON PENN.

Also on Monday NPR's All Songs Considered streamed an Animal Collective show in DC. Some people (Ben) don't want to listen to it because of possible spoilers, but may I just say it was . . . amazing? They played Banshee Beat, the first Animal Collective song I ever heard. If I heard that live myself, I would probably cry. Especially the way they played it. This is where you can hear it:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103811402

Besides making me feel so happy, it made me infinitely more excited to see them in June. I didn't think it was possible to be more excited than I already am for it but AC is just full of surprises you know!

Also also might be making a breakthrough on that license plate business. Details when I get them. Adam Davies (novelist/professor/sucker) made a bet with me that there are regular, personal license plates that don't begin with an A or a B. Oh how it would sting to lose a bet to one of your undergrads. 

Watergate Pt. II

O.K. you heard it here first: I am about to blow this shit out of the water.

Recently I have noticed an alarming trend with license plates. I know it seems like any trend with license plates can't be all that alarming, but this is too much. I started noticing that every Georgia license plate I've seen (Chatham County and otherwise) that is a personal vehicle that does not begin with numbers either begins with an A or a B.

Not included:

The aforementioned plates that begin with numbers

City/state vehicles

Disabled plates + any other specialized plates

That sounds like a lot of exclusions but really, it's not. Back to the issue at hand, why do all of these plates begin with an A or a B? Why not any other letter? Why do other states have a complete range of letters?

Well I went to the DMV. Yeah, I did. I stood in line with all of the angrys in order to find out. And what did I find?

"What?! I don't know! What are you even talking about?"

"I mean personal vehicle plates in Georgia. All beginning with A and B."

"You don't have any other business here?"

"No."

"Next in line please."

That was my conversation at the DMV.

My next plan of attack was via the telephone where I might come off as less crazy. I called the state department of motor vehicles, which directed me to several other offices. I ended up calling all the DMVs in the county and I either got referred to another office or got the response of, "I don't know." Until I got this response:

"Oh, we're not authorized to discuss that information."

Oh. We're not authorized to discuss that information. I see. I see. What information? Why wouldn't they, people who work in the office of the DMV, not be authorized to discuss it?

I need to find out. Maybe there is a vast statewide (nationwide? worldwide?) conspiracy that I am on the brink of uncovering. Maybe this is the start of the sequel to All The President's Men. All I know is, I'm determined. If for anything to prevent me from obsessively scanning over license plates while I drive.

I wish I were friends with Sting right now

This has always really bothered me. In the song "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by The Police there is a lyric that goes:

Her friends are so jealous

You know how bad girls get

Does he mean Bad Girls? As in "Bad girls, you know how they get." Or does he mean, "You know when girls get jealous, it gets bad." Lately I've been thinking it's the latter but growing up I always thought it was the former.

I think about this a lot. If I ever meet Sting, I will ask him this. 

Also, unrelated, but am I the only one who thinks that swine flu just kind of seems like flu flu? The name sounds much worse, as I, like most people I'm sure, would not want to contract any illness with the word "swine" in it. But from what I've read (which is not a lot) it's bad for kids and old people and people with weak immune systems and has "flu-like symptoms." Is that because it's, how do I put this, the flu? I don't know. If I die from SWINE FLU everyone can make fun of me during my funeral's after party (not during the funeral, though, that's just in bad taste).

Office Life + Cherry Pie

One interesting thing about working at Savannah Magazine is that it's my introduction into office life. The set-up reminds me of a cross between The Office and 13 Going on 30 (underrated). There are unfinished pages tacked on the walls along with pages from past issues and different, current magazines filled with flags and circles. I also have to keep all of my projects and information about the rest of the year's issues under lockdown to avoid leaking information to the magazine's competition. A little more high stakes than I had expected.
I have my own cute little office space, complete with desk, computer, and highly-complicated phone. I hate this phone. Cell phones don't work in the building, as it is hurricane proof (ha!) so I have no choice but to use my office phone. It's cute because I have my own extension, but the novelty ends there. I have to dial a million different numbers to dial out of the office, a million more to dial out of state, and if I pause between digits for too long the phone automatically calls whatever extension the numbers I've already dialed make up, meaning I call some random person in the office (of 300+ people) and either have an awkward exchange or hang up (I go for the latter, usually and unfortunately). My editor suggested I personalize my desk, but that feels too awkward. Instead I've sort of adopted my drawers as something akin to my high school locker: filled with Diet Coke along with earphones and maybe some M&M's sometimes.
I'm currently working on two articles right now, one really dry and one actually very interesting (at least the research is). I'm basically going to have a Fat Cat resume after this internship is over.
In other news, I had probably my best visual-based critique yesterday, magically in 3D Design. It was for our second project, which was to make a food product out of clay. When they had my professor, Ben made a frog, Allie made matzo, and Chase made a box of Oreos (which Coleman disappointingly tried to eat during a Goblin party a couple of years ago). I made cherry pie. The fact that I hate cherry pie was an advantage as I wasn't overcome with hunger every time I worked on it. Although it did cause me to have Warrant's "Cherry Pie" stuck in my head for the past two weeks or so. I made a whole pie with a slice cut out, and then a slice with a scoop of ice cream:




The project went over really well. For the first time in a non-writing critique, I did not want to kill myself and not only that I, wait for it, was actually proud of my work. Sounds silly, but it was worth something.
I also enjoyed celebrating 4/20 last night with Allie, Ben, Jon Penn, and Dash along with Charlie and Calvin (Charlie's favorite holiday happens to be 4/20) and lots of snacks and Tetris Attack. I have the scratches (Calvin) and red eyes (not blinking during video gaming + other factors) to show for last night's activities.

robots and tears and missed connections

I'm in 3D Design right now. Our first project was to make a kinetic toy entirely out of paper. I made a robot.

His hands and feet move and he stands on his own. It took approximately a million hours but I feel good about it.

Charlie, Robot, Me.

In other news, a missed connection was put out for me. This happened last year but this time it's not a "hey you're cute," one.

Sad

It says:
animal collective bumpter sticker - w4w (downtown sav)

hey i saw you a few weeks ago in a white car around wright square. you were crying. i remember thinking you had a weird bumper sticker but couldnt remember it. i saw you again yesterday, i think on bull street and i made it a point to look at your car's bumper stickers and remembered it was an animal collective one i was thinking of. anyway i've never seen anyone crying so hard like that in their car and it really stuck with me and who ever you are i hope things are better for you now then when i first saw you. try and keep your chin up and remember even if you feel really alone you arent.

In case you hadn't guessed, I drive a white car with an Animal Collective bumper sticker. And I do cry in my car moderately often because I kind of forget that people can see in. If this isn't proof that I am just sad, sad, sad then I don't know what is.

recent successes

I started my internship at Savannah Magazine. It's cool; I get my own cubicle/desk/computer/phone extension/email/official signature line. It's all very office-y and official. It's a good mix of fun and boring and I appreciate that Annabelle, the managing editor whom I'm interning for, wants me to get real experience, not just get coffee for people. 

I always submit stuff to The New Yorker, usually poetry because they accept it unsolicited and via e-mail. And I always get rejected a few weeks later. This cycle happens every few months. My logic is that the worst that can happen is they not publish me, which is what happens anyway. I always get the same rejection e-mail that's along of the lines of, "Thank you for submitting, unfortunately . . ." etc etc. But Wednesday I got a different e-mail. It caught my eye first because it was a Re: e-mail when usually it's a new e-mail with a subject something like "Your Recent New Yorker Submission." When I opened it, I re-read it about a million times. Not only did they use my name ("Elizabeth, . . ."), but it wasn't the standard rejection e-mail. It said that my poetry was accepted for the first tier of submissions, that they enjoyed reading my work, look forward to hearing from me in the future, and that they would let me know if my work would be accepted for publication. In my mind, The New Yorker is the tippy top of publication (mostly because David Sedaris is a frequent contributor), so the fact that they even typed my name nearly made me scream. 

There's a few reasons that this is awesome. There's the obvious reason: it's the goddamned New Yorker. Then there's the fact that I recently did not get into SCAD's student literary journal, Artemis. My professor assured me that it was because my work is too vulgar/funny/real/good, which I appreciate hearing, but when the New Yorker takes note of some of the same work I submitted to Artemis, it makes me feel a million times better (and also is a "fuck you" to Artemis).  Then there's also the fact that I personally have felt over the past few months my poetry has hit a new plane. That sounds pretty artsy, I know, but it's true. It's probably due in part to the overwhelming despair that has taken over my life the past few months, but I know it also has to do with my maturation as a writer. And finally, all of the work I submitted to the New Yorker is about (some more directly than others) my relationship/breakup with Robert. There's that idea that if those pieces get published it would be a sort of personal triumph, but even more than that it's comforting to know that through everything I was able to create these little pieces that people, from friends to classmates to professors to editors at the New Yorker, have been able to identify with, appreciate, and (on some level) enjoy.

I knew it

"Better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all," is a line from a poem so overused it has transcended itself to phrase-status, which automatically lends itself to Cliche. That being said, for as long as I can remember knowing that phrase (I first remember reading it somewhere when I was 7) I have thought it was absolutely, completely false.

A million people have told me the phrase is true and a million more will continue to tell me. Most people tell me this along with the guarantee that "someday" I will learn. And I realize I am young with less life experience than people who believe in that saying. But I still maintain my original standpoint that to have loved and lost will always be completely worse than never loving at all. After Robert, after Professor Fucker, after Conor, after etc etc etc, I feel that my belief only gets stronger and stronger. So there.

[sand]traps

Some people like sand. Most people don't notice when the ground is particularly sandy or grainy for whatever reason. Most people don't have much of an opinion on sand at all because why should they?

When I was a baby/toddler/kid I would vomit instantly if I touched sand or salt or anything similar, be it with hands or feet. Over time I've learned to control the insta-vomit, but I still have to avoid it. I've been to the beach. Besides the heat and salt water and overall boredom that I feel comes with a beach trip, there is the sand. Usually if I walk on sand now, I can sort of prep myself mentally and gingerly walk and just feel extremely sick. Being older I'm never really in a situation where I have to be on a beach. Although now, of course, I'm in enrolled in the required (for writing, mind you) course of 3D Design, which includes a mandatory field trip to Tybee Island to participate in SCAD's Sand Arts Festival. How does one explain to a teacher that they can't go on a mandatory beach field trip because if they touch sand they throw up? Or should I say, how does one explain this without sounding like a lying jackass?

Today a terrible thing happened. My Nonfiction III class was moved to Wallin Hall. I've had one class there before during the winter of freshman year. When it was cold. When I didn't wear sandals. As it is now springtime I wore sandals today, really cute ones, too. I got to Wallin Hall, expecting class as usual. But when I stepped out of the car, my foot sunk.

I don't know what makes me sicker in these situations: the sand or the dread that comes along with knowing vomit is imminent - not only imminent, but imminent when you're already a minute late for class and will inevitably be made later. I tried to walk as carefully as I could through the parking lot, which suddenly looked fucking huge, but naturally I still got sand in my shoes. The wave of sickness and the nearly uncontrollable need to kick my feet came over me and by the time I walked into class (last one in), red-faced and with a sour throat all I could say was, "The parking lot is full of sand." Luckily my professor was already in the know about my situation and though everyone laughed, I put my stuff down as fast as possible and ran (on my tiptoes so as not to clank down the hall) to the bathroom and just threw up. And throwing up is terrible; the watering of the eyes, the clenching of your abdomen. I felt sick all of the rest of class and could barely pay attention, though we luckily watched a movie. Of course my professor still called on me for something and I was so focused on keeping my stomach settled and trying to keep the feeling of graininess out of my head that I couldn't answer his question with anything besides "I'm trying not to throw up."

I hate throwing up, but there are certain situations that are better than others. When I'm hungover or have food poisoning, I at least feel productive by throwing up. But because of sand? Sand? It's just stupid and useless, a really good way to ruin my class period and the rest of my day.

recent

Coleman, Goblin Manor, High Life, and hot dogs

Jon bought me a beautiful headdress in Istanbul

Coleman and Charlie cuddle time!

River Street on St. Patrick's Day

Giving Charlie a belly rub

really germany?

Really?
http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,612684,00.html

reasons charlie = me

Over the past few weeks I have discovered that Charlie is basically me, in the form of a male cat.

- Charlie is always ready for sleep. I have long thought my mutant power was the ability sleep at any time in any location and I think Charlie shares this power. I know this seems like average cat behavior but here's an example to illustrate what I'm talking about: yesterday a fly was in my room. Charlie saw it. He was laying on my bed and when the fly flew by him he lifted his paw to swat at it. He missed (the fly was about a yard above him) and fell back. He fell asleep like this within a minute, on his back, one paw extended.
- Charlie likes to cuddle and hold hands. It's almost impossible for me to lay down in my bed without Charlie coming up to snuggle down next to me. He usually ends up sleeping next to me, facing me, head on my pillow, with at least one paw extended out and on me. Also, if I have an open palm, he'll put his little paw into it.
- Charlie is security-conscious. If I leave during the day, when I come back he's on my chair. But if I leave at night, he's always under the bed when I come back. When I walk into my room, he meows from under the bed. If I don't answer him, he stays there but if I do, he comes out.
- Charlie might have OCD. I take medication for my OCD so that I am not constantly shaving my legs but I still have symptoms that come up. Charlie's food is in a dual container, with food on one side and water on the other. Instead of doing that, though, I just put food in both sides and put his water in a separate bowl. Charlie will not start eating the food out of the right side until every piece of food is eaten from the left side. I watch him do this again and again and even tested it by putting a couple of pieces of food in the empty left side. He saw them, stopped eating from the right side, ate the pieces on the left, and then continued on the right.
- Charlie does not have a keen sense of space and distance. Anyone who has seen me park knows that I am not great in judging distance and space. This is evidenced by me parking within inches of the car in front of me, with about 10 feet between my car and the car behind me. I am also bad at judging when it's appropriate to cross the street (in a car or on foot) because I can never quite seem to tell how far away a car is. Charlie seems to be unable to tell where the bed ends and the floor begins. He has fallen off of the bed twice (that I know of) and I nightly have to catch him from rolling off. This always happens in his attempt to get comfortable, which involves rolling over and over again.
- Charlie likes Animal Collective. I play a lot of music in my room that Charlie does not respond to whatsoever. The one artist he does respond to, though, is Animal Collective. The first time he did this I thought it was a fluke. I played a live version of Brother Sport and each time Avey Tare whooped, Charlie sort of squeaked/meowed/whooped back. I played it again and he did it again. When I play Animal Collective or Panda Bear he almost always makes a noise back at the song. So far his favorites seem to be Brother Sport and Bros. Maybe he identifies with brotherly songs?

And just an image to leave you with: this is a picture I took the other morning of Charlie. His face was about three inches from mine. This is what I wake up to almost every morning.