here we go again.

“Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder, children get older
I’m getting older too”
— “Landslide,” by Stevie Nicks



Sometimes I freak out when I see young children,
Teetering and scuttling about,
And realize, that at some point, they’ll be my age,
And I’ll be older.

My twenty-five year old friend was frantically telling me today
About how once you reach your twenties,
Time starts accelerating at an alarming rate
And that gauge called your age
Starts creeping higher and higher
And you keep getting older all the more quickly
And it’s absolutely terrifying.

I used to joke about being ready to retire
And how thrilled I was, anticipating spending the rest of my days
Either, a: sitting out on the front porch,
Chain-smoking and sipping from a tall glass of lemonade and vodka
And shaking my cane at the neighborhood children
Or, b: rolling around on the living room floor,
Fucked up on painkillers.
And then I realized,
Those were activities I already frequently partake in,
Minus the cane shaking,
And, given the current state of absolutely everything in America
I’m probably never going to retire.

Fuck.



And
My eyes are getting worse.
I’m slowly getting more blind.
I have my first floater.
It’s brown
And annoying.

I’m too young to feel old;
Am I too old to be young again?

My friend’s mother, who is dying in the hospital—
Whose only motivation, it seems, in her desperate state,
To stay alive is to get off of bed rest, in ten to twelve weeks,
So that she may sit out in the sunroom at the nursing home—
Joked about how exhilarating it was
To be wheeled around in the hall,
Because being confined to her bed
Was driving her insane,
Except I think that deep down, she was being dead serious.

She’s too young to die;
Her daughter is too young to not have a mother.



Also,
In 140 characters or less,
Can somebody please tell me:
Where the fuck did this year go?

@Zach mourning over a lost lover, driving, analyzing & reporting, folding paper birds, self-medicating, dwelling, drinking, writing, art-ing(?)

(tweeting?)

Semi-productive, at best.



There’s so much more I should be doing.


Fuck.


What?
What’s that you say?
The new year starts tomorrow?

Double fuck.


I keep forgetting that
Time stops for no one.
And
Once again
We find ourselves
Lifting our glasses
And sharing a toast
Because the new year is coming, whether we like it or not
(whether we’re ready for it, or not):

Here’s to the new year.
Here’s to fresh starts.
Here’s to productivity.
Here’s to civility.
Here’s to humility.
And to graciousness.

Here’s to stopping making up excuses for other people.
Here’s to stopping making up excuses for myself.
Here’s to mending fences.
Here’s to falling back in it again.
And to knowing my own worth.

Here’s to getting the fuck over it.
Here’s to decency.
Here’s to not waiting around for other people to change.
Here’s to baking a cake for someone who actually wants it.
Here’s to falling in love with someone who can return the favor.
Here’s to finding someone who actually gives a shit about me,
And not settling for anything less.

Here’s to love.
Here’s to meeting someone who can appreciate me for who I am,
Not for who I could potentially become.
To meeting someone who doesn’t think I have growing to do,
That my feet aren’t too small for the shoes I’m trying to fill.

Here’s to reading more.
Here’s to writing more.
Here’s to art.

Here’s to throwing caution to the wind.

Here’s to dancing,
Here’s to singing at the top of my lungs,
Here’s to jamming.

Here’s to cutting myself some well-deserved slack.
Here’s to letting go.

Here’s to Lady Gaga
And to the aliens.


Here’s to my friends,
Here’s to new beginnings,
And making it count.



Fuck, here we go again.

hot buttered rum

Christmas isn’t about decadence or pageantry,
It isn’t about the shimmering grandeur and elegance
Of black-tie affairs, with beautiful ladies trimmed in lace
And flowing bottles of sweet ripple and peppermint flavored champagne.
It isn’t about brown paper packages tied up with string
Or lovers passionately making out under the mistletoe;
Christmas is about family dysfunction:
At the table
All conversational etiquette,
Codes of mingling
And appropriate topics of debate
Are thrown to the wind.
Violent and swift hand motions
Punctuate arguments,
White-knuckled fists pound against the tabletop
Underscoring and emphasizing the poignancy of each claim,
Rattling nearby silverware and china.
Drinks spill, staining the tablecloth blood red,
Dishes fly like saucers across the sparkling, chandelier lit ceiling
And smash against the opposite wall
Breaking into a thousand porcelain pieces.
The shards are collected,
And catapulted in a showering bombardment
Of ceramic daggers and verbal darts.
And the war wages on.

Christmas is about finding ways
To avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
My aunt fixed me a drink:
A hot buttered cider, infused with brown sugar,
Cinnamon, nutmeg and rum—her most recent
Concoction spawning from her newfound
Rediscovery and love for the pirate’s ale.
There we sat, grinning, sipping away at the brew
From coffee cups, like we were casually drinking afternoon tea.
But we were armed with much more than merely a foamy beer coat.
Wrapped in warm suits of armor, we were prepared,
With mugs inappropriate for the occasion,
Filled to the brim with liquid courage,
Allowing us to bravely face the insanity
That is our family.

Christmas is about remembering:
I remember every Christmas, before my grandfather died,
He would sit in the armchair by the window,
Watching, patiently waiting for us to arrive.
No matter how late it was when we pulled in,
There he was, smiling, waiting to greet us
And invite us inside from the cold.

Christmas is about the delegation of work in the kitchen:
This year, I was the designated eye-wiper of the onion cutters,
Dutifully dabbing and blotting the tearing lids
Of the weeping choppers.

Christmas is about pretending to like the relatives
You secretly despise, and pretending you’re not gay,
And that you can’t keep the ladies away from you.

Christmas is about donning horizontal stripes
As to appear larger so that the vulture great-aunts
Do not swoop in for feeding.

Christmas is about midnight meals
Of buttered toast dipped in chocolate milk.

Christmas is about the conversations you have over cigarettes—
When you say you’re “going out for some fresh air”
But everyone really knows what you’re doing
And you feel like you’re fourteen again—
Conversations about the entanglement theory,
And how curing chest-colds by spitting into wood stoves makes perfect sense,
Because your bacteria is linked, regardless of where it is festering,
And if it is burning in the fire, it must be burning away in your lungs as well.
Conversations about the strange, orange glow
Of the sky of upper state New York at night.
And about the healing powers of hippy lettuce.

Christmas is about coming together with your designated few—
Your kindred company—despite whether or not you’re linked by blood,
And sharing what little you have with each other
So that you may survive this holiday together.

“"But at least we all will be together, if the Fates allow,
From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now"”

secret ovaries.

There are plenty of things I should be doing right now.
I should be dutifully examining the memoirs of Benjamin Franklin
And composing a thoughtful and eloquent essay, no less than six pages,
Addressing the overarching theme of self-reliance,
And using anecdotes and episodes from the biography as evidence
To illustrate Franklin’s attempts at self-representation and self-promotion,
And possibly taking mental notes
So that I may use his tips
To one day become a better human being.
I should be studying the human atlas.
So my self-portraits stop looking like
Post-pregnancy, post-menopausal women.
I should be watching my wallet, and saving my pennies.
I should be tuning into the news instead of blatantly
Ignoring the madness that is what turns the world.
I should be drinking water instead of lemonade & vodka and pretending its summer.
Alas, I blog.

Oh, the things we do to not do what we’re supposed to be doing.

We went to a play that one of my friends was directing,
And I was on the verge of tears the entire time.
It wasn’t so much the plot
As it was the actual acting that got to me.
The actors and actresses were just so incredibly convincing,
Which, I suppose, is the point,
To pretend to be someone you’re not
And make the performance believable.
Regardless, they tugged at my heartstrings,
Ripped the organ out of my chest,
Still beating,
Threw it in a blender,
Pureed it,
And gave it back to me in a Styrofoam cup when I left.
I could barely stomach it walking back to my car.
But I laughed with them in their joy
And ached with them in their grief.
And I wondered, if they were capable
Of so easily emotionally manipulating me,
If, conversely, their roles ever got to them as well,
And the pain they were expressing
Was real,
Or, if it was
Just acting.
But then again, I’m a sap.
I almost cried four dozen times this evening whilst watching “Up”.

I think I have secret ovaries,
And I’m forever PMSing.
Without the pain.
Or the bleeding.

(I too want to bawl whenever I see those “save the polar bear” commercials)

I’ll know I’ve met the right man
When he discovers my metaphorical ovaries
And doesn’t flee the state.


But isn’t that what we’re all looking for?
Someone who GETS us.
Someone who doesn’t think you’re crazy
When they come home to find you taping paper birds to the ceiling,
Or taking dead pictures of yourself,
Or drinking wine out of coffee cups,
While wearing a paper bag hat,
And having a field day with a hot-glue gun and old wallpaper.
Someone who doesn’t think you’re completely insane
For owning more garage sale trinkets than decent clothes,
Or eating cake for breakfast
And secretly wanting to possess the ability to bear children.

(even though I don’t want children, not never).




I’m I sharing too much?
Fuck it.
This is why we write, isn’t it?
This is why we make art.
Because, when it boils down to it,
We’re all just sitting there screaming
At the top of our lungs
And no one seems to hear us
And we just want someone to notice
For someone to acknowledge our existence
Just for a brief second,
To reassure us that our convictions stand firm.
And that we’re not total basket cases.



I bought a cinnamon broom
And nailed it above the door.
Supposedly they’re supposed to bring luck to the household.
We’ll see.
I almost bought some mistletoe,

(I want nothing more than to kiss someone under the mistletoe.)

But decided against it.

(Who here am I going to kiss?)











At least we have a tacky Christmas tree,
Trimmed with tacky dollar store ornaments
And if I stand next to it, I don't feel so tacky.

something to live for.

I need revitalization.
I need reassurance.
I need to feel like I’m doing things right.
I need to know there is a means to the end.
I need to know that this isn’t all in vain.
I need to know this isn’t the last call.
I need to know there is something else coming out there.
I need something to believe in.
I need a renewed sense of hope.
I need a slap in the face.
I need a cold shower.
I need a shot of something strong.
I need to recalibrate.
I need to reevaluate.
I need something thoroughly modern.
I need to feel like I haven’t passed my prime.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my novelty.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my motivation.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my vision.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my sanity.
I need to feel like I’m not crazy.
I need to know it’s only a matter of time.
I need to know that it’s worth the wait.
I need to know that you’re somewhere out there.
I need to know where you are.
I need to know when you’re going to get here.
I need to know your phone number.
I need you in my bed.
I need to feel you next to me.
I need to feel my chest pressed to yours.
I need to feel your heartbeat.
I need to know your motives.
I need to know your intentions are pure.
I need to know you won’t paint me in watercolors.
I need to know you won’t wash me away.
I need to know you won’t wash yourself away.
I need something worth fighting for.
I need something to keep on marching for.
I need something to shovel out for.
I need something to keep on keepin’ on for.
I need something to dance for.
I need something to sing for.
I need something to celebrate for.
I need something to live for.

your weight in gold.

It’s December.
The days are getting noticeably shorter.
The sun is waning.
I can feel my seasonal starting to kick in.
The end is near.
But, we are prepared for the approaching dark ages.
We know this ritual all too well.
All the windowsills
Are slowly being filled
With flickering candles.
Electric ribbons—
Kaleidoscopic cobwebs
Bleed from the bare wooden wrists
Of the sleeping trees.
We turn on every light in the house,
Even the chandeliers and closet lights,
And break out the natural, full spectrum bulbs.
Everything is illuminated.
There’s really not much else we can do at this point
But bundle, nurse ourselves with bottles of whisky,
Grab our shovels
And prepare
To bravely and gallantly dig ourselves
Out of winter.

I think I successfully avoided the swine flu.
Conversely, I think I’ve earned my health.
I’ve spent years unintentionally exposing myself to illness,
Trading germs with lovers and strangers alike,
Culminating an impenetrable immune system of steel.
I will miss the codeine though.
Maybe I’ll fake tonsillitis.

There was a brilliant blue ring around the moon last night.
It was beautiful, but eerie as fuck:
Sailors believed it signifies bad weather.
Old wives' tales claimed it is a sign of bad luck.
I’m convinced it was a marker of the apocalypse.
The scientists, however, chalk it up to the refraction of moonlight
Shining through ice crystals suspended in the clouds.
But I hate being disillusioned
And resolved that I’d rather not know the truth:
"You may tear apart the baby's rattle
And see what makes the noise inside,
But there is a veil covering the unseen world
Which not the strongest man,
Nor even the united strength
Of all the strongest men that ever lived,
Could tear apart"
- Francis Pharcellus Church “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”
Needless to say, it rained all day.


And when it rains, it pours.





(I should build a raft.
And I’ll attach little paper boats
To the back of it
And sail to the gas station.
Because lord knows how I’m
Always running low on cigarettes)




I briefly considered grief counseling as a possible profession:
I was talking to my aunt about this back in August
And we both concluded that no one knows pain
Quite like people who have actually experienced it,
And that we were both more than qualified candidates for the job,
Because we have mastered the art of mourning.
But then I remembered that I never actually take my own advice
And that I should probably actively practice what I preach
If I’m going to counsel the grieving.
And decided I’d rather be unhealthy and destructive instead.



Thanksgiving was sufficiently awkward;
I was thankful for the liquid courage supplied at dinner.



I am, however, thankful for my friends.
Home was refreshing, as it always is.
We gossiped, planned, conspired
And earned our calluses and blisters
In a magical jam session.
We practiced witchcraft,
Wrote spells and read our fortunes,
Discussed micro-science,
And the strange phenomenon where siblings convince themselves
That it’s perfectly acceptable to throw things at each other
(if you have a brother or sister, you this animalistic rage and exchange.)
We freaked out about the power of technology and the government,
Traumatized ourselves after watching UFO videos on the Internet
And the insanity that is lady gaga,
Decided that lady gaga and Dakota fanning were probably aliens
And briefly considered falling off the grid completely
To live in a house out in the middle of nowhere
To be one with nature.

And ride horses.

And then promptly decided that that was a terrible idea.



My grandma was telling me
That back in the forties, when celebrities got divorced,
The husbands would give their ex-wives their weight in gold
As compensation.



But I don’t want a pound of flesh, or your weight in gold, just your love.

on art, an excerpt

...But is that not something we inherently and automatically do? Is that not our duty and obligation as humans, to share what little we have with our brothers so that we can improve ourselves and grow together both individually and collectively in the process? Aren’t we all in this together? Aren’t we all essentially doing the same things? Trying to make sense of our situations, spinning straw into gold, twisting wool into a unified thread and trying to weave these strands into a cohesive fabric of understanding? It seems selfish to assume that an artist would create a piece of art with intentions to not share it with the world, because in creating that work, the artist is putting forth his personal investigations, analyses and conclusions. I do not see how withholding or altering this information would be productive or progressive. Doctors share their findings so that we can cure our ill; grandparents pass down their wisdom, anecdotes and personal histories so that we can learn from their pasts; mothers, fathers and teachers pass down their knowledge of the world so that we are better equipped to survive this lifetime. Whether or not we realize it, we all do this: we all compare notes with our friends and ask our designated confidants for advice and opinions for guidance. Art is just another form of that conversation.
Art is about communication. Talking, discussing, dialoguing, discoursing, debating, conversing: these are the conduits through which we exchange ideas, express thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions, hopes and fears. Sharing the details of our lives is how we connect to other human beings. As artists, we choose to communicate visually, and without this capacity, this ability to make a truly intimate and meaningful connection with another living being, art is not worth making.

baking cakes part two: back in the kitchen (blessings of an ex lover)

So.






It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.

You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.




You remember the kitchen and the cake.




You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.

And you remember the moment you did give it to him:

“…I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator.

He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks.

Shit
Fuck.
Shit.
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid

What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die


I don’t know, he replies,
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff

And you know he doesn’t want your cake.

it's okay, you say,
but it's not.

it was nothing, you say,
but it was definitely something.”

(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)

You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.








And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.

Somehow, you got over it.

And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.

And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.

AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.

And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:

“This is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm
And hope it don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You just do it all again.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”



And you know everything is going to work out just fine.